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FOUR MONTHS 


AT GLENCAIRN 


By 

Katharine T. Obear 


BROADWAY ‘PUBLISHING CO. 
835 {Broadway, {Njtto York 



Tz 3 

.©w«i 

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Copyright , JpJj, 

BY 

K. T. Obear. 


OEC 24 ! 9 i 3 


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t r 
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To My Sister 





This old chronicle of the sayings and doings of 
these small country children during a short period of 
their lives was written by the oldest of them at a 
time when they stood in great need of money. 

The story explains this. 

The manuscript was unearthed from a pile of old 
papers, packed into a cast-off secretary, long since 
forgotten, in a dark corner of a spacious garret. 

Every member of the author’s large family clam- 
ored for a copy, and thus it saw the light of day. 

H. Theydon. 




































































































































































* 




Four Months at Glencairn 


CHAPTER I. 

THEYDON HALL. 

August i, 1876, was a memorable day in our fam- 
ily, because it was a dividing line in our lives. 

Everything was going on just as usual, and as 
things had been going on for years. We were in the 
schoolroom saying our lessons, when Mother sud- 
denly called Cousin John, our tutor, in tones of the 
wildest alarm. 

We all rushed — for Mother was evidently fright- 
ened. There, out in the hall, on their knees, were 
Mother and Mauma, trying to lift Father, who was 
stretched on the floor. 

We thought he was dead — and so did Mother. 
We began to cry and scream, while Cousin John and 
Daddy Caesar, who had come in, got him on the 
sofa, and what with rubbing, and with water, 
camphor, and all the other things that country peo- 
ple always keep in the house, because the doctor lives 


2 


jFour S@ontl)0 at (Slentatnt 


so far away, they got him, at last, to open his eyes 
and to look at ns. 

Cousin John thought the sun had been too much 
for him, for Father had been out riding over the 
plantation since breakfast, and the day was very 
hot ; but Mother said he had not been quite well for 
weeks, and even when Father got up, and sat in his 
arm-chair, she still looked distressed and wanted to 
send to the city for a doctor. 

Father laughed at her and said he was all right — 
not to be worried. 

But he wasn’t all right at all, for after dinner he 
fainted again and Mother and Cousin John were a 
long time restoring him. 

Then Mother didn’t ask Father, but wrote the 
note herself, and sent it to the doctor. 

It was well she did, for Father just kept on faint- 
ing; and when the doctor came next day he said he 
had been sent for just in time — that Father had a 
nervous breakdown, and that it was absolutely im- 
perative that he should drop all business and worry, 
and go away from home for at least five or six 
months. 

If Father followed this advice, he assured him he 
would be a well man at the end of that time. 

Then he left, leaving many prescriptions. 

But how doctors do talk ! Here was Father wor- 
rying himself sick because of his tangled finances, 
and to be told to drop everything — and in the fall, 
too, of all times — and to take a rest of five or six 
months — it was simply nonsense — so he told Mother. 

But Mother and Cousin John talked reason to him 
until they got him reluctantly to consent. 

Cousin John came grandly to the front. He 
offered to take care of the house, and of all of us ; to 
oversee everything on the plantation — the hands and 


jFont gj ontflg at (Slencatttt 3 

the crops — in fact, he was a true friend in this time 
of need. 

But . Mother was miserable, as she was not satis- 
fied with this arrangement at all. 

She felt obliged to go with Father, as he still 
fainted upon the slightest exertion. She would not 
allow him to get out of her sight. 

But to leave her seven children in the care of so 
young a man as Cousin John, even with Mauma 
here to help, didn’t meet with her approval. She 
was certainly torn between her two duties. 

Then, to the astonishment of the whole family, 
Grandmother Chase wrote to announce that she 
herself would come and take charge of us. 

# Thanks to Mauma, our colored nurse, we had long 
since, found out from scraps of kitchen conversa- 
tion indulged in while we were around, that when in 
the long ago Father had gone courting Mother, 
Grandmother Chase had “turned up her nose” at 
him. 

Mauma was authority, for she had been Mother’s 
maid before she married Father; so, being on the 
spot, she had taken notes. 

She also told that there was a Mr. Roderick living 
in Atlanta, immensely rich, who thought a lot of 
Mother, and Grandmother had picked him out for 
her son-in-law; so that when Father came, a poor 
planter, she did not relish the idea of Mother’s marry- 
ing him in the least, no matter what his family was. 

Well, she held out, and Mother fretted until 
Grandfather Chase, who was living then, interfered. 

“Ole Marster could tell a man wen ’e saw ’em ; so 
’e said, if Mistiss wanted to marry Marse Philip 
T’eydon ’e gib ’e consent.” 

That was all Mother wanted, so the engagement 
was announced and Grandmother gave in, but not 
gracefully. She would not give Mother a grand 


4 


jFout e©oMf)S at <2>lencafnt 


wedding or anything; but this exactly suited Father, 
who really had but little money, and so was spared 
unnecessary expense. Grandmother said “Nannie 
had made ’e bed and should lie on it,” was another of 
Mauma’s yarns; so very little help had she ever 
given, even when after Grandfather’s death she had 
plenty to spare. 

When we repeated all this, we got well lectured 
by Mother for listening to kitchen gossip, and we be- 
lieve Mauma got hauled over the coals, too. 

So when this letter came from Grandmother say- 
ing she was coming, no one knew what to make of it. 

The news was received with undisguised dismay 
by us. Grandmother had openly disapproved of all 
of us, except Bessie, who is just like her, and there- 
fore she is not a favorite among the young people of 
Theydon Hall. 

On her few previous visits to us, our lives were 
made miserable at the unfavorable contrasts drawn 
between us and those marvelous, immaculate little 
Rodericks, that lived near her. The magnificent 
Roderick establishment, their finely trained ser- 
vants, the accomplishments of their children, their 
courtly manners, was the everlasting theme of her 
conversation, all meaning, to put it in our language, 
“Now, Nannie, you see what you have lost.” 

But Mother was game, and never seemed to mind 
it in the least, and as for those children, she told 
Grandmother she would not have hers such prigs 
for worlds. 

There was one little bit of comfort, though. Auntie 
was coming, too. She had just graduated and 
needed a change after her busy year at college. 

We had not seen Aunt Eva for years, not since she 
was a little girl herself, and used to be proud when 
we called her “Auntie,” 


iFout 0§ontljs at ©lencattn 


5 


Well, one morning the telegram came saying they 
would arrive on that very day. 

Cousin John lived with us, and while Father was 
sick it was very nice to have any one so strong and 
kind to lean on. 

Father was lots better. The medicines the doctor 
had prescribed had done him good, and then the 
weather was a little cooler, so we began to see some 
fun in all this, and our spirits began to rise. 

Before lessons we had been out in the grove, and 
each of us boys had chosen an old tree, and, calling 
it after one of those Roderick children, we had 
chunked it well, so as to get rid of some of the wrath 
that their very names called up in us — and well we 
knew their praises would be chanted to us. 

Lessons were short that morning. We were dis- 
missed in good time for scrubs and clean clothes. 

Grumbling at our hard luck, we had slicked down 
our unruly locks and were ready to greet our guests, 
when Bessie called that they had turned the curve in 
the road and were driving into the avenue. 

Father went down the steps to help them out of 
the carriage, and Mother, just behind him, stood 
ready to embrace them. 

Mauma had planted herself in the way, to show 
off Margaret, who had been added to our family 
since Grandmother’s last visit. 

Bessie and Tom were on the steps, while we four 
were on the piazza, having a lively scuffle, under 
cover of the confusion, to see which one should be 
the foremost and get the first kiss. 

Phil had Paul by the band of his knickerbockers, 
held firmly in front of him ; Paul was revenging him- 
self by rapid backward kicks. But “Look out,” I 
whispered, “Grandmother is ascending the steps 
now.” 


6 jfour e©ontf)3 at <S5Iencatnt 

We quieted down and received our kiss and also 
our snub. 

“My ! how tanned these children are, Daughter.” 

But sweet Auntie caught all four of us in a lov- 
ing hug and kissed the “brown berries’’ with all her 
heart. 

Then in the cool sitting room we sat for a few 
minutes, while Grandmother expressed great sur- 
prise to see how well Father looked. 

Mother said he had improved wonderfully since 
she last wrote, that the tonic he was taking was act- 
ing like a charm. 

“Why, yes, Daughter, you have alarmed me un- 
necessarily. I am sorry, for it certainly did not suit 
me to leave home this fall.” 

“But the doctor says he must have a change,” said 
Mother. 

We were very shy, and sat with our eyes riveted 
on Auntie, who was the loveliest piece of mortal 
flesh we had ever seen. She was busy talking to 
Father. 

Then Cousin John came in and was introduced. 
He must have thought Auntie very beautiful, too, 
for he was forever stealing a look at her. 

Well, we had the grandest week that had ever 
come into our lives. Auntie just devoted herself to 
us. 

We had holiday, and every day after breakfast 
we all went to the grove with Auntie and Cousin 
John, and there we had so much fun. Cousin John 
could play and joke and tell such funny stories. Then 
he would read poetry to Auntie, and they would fuss 
over how some passages should be read. She would 
take the book and read it herself in her sweet voice, 
and he would give in always — she was always right — 
and to think how we had thought he couldn’t do 
anything but teach, and keep us afraid of him; we 


jFout Qiontfjs! at (Slencaim 7 


never dared to enter that schoolroom without having 
our lessons well prepared, Phil excepted. We had 
even doubted if he could laugh. It was certainly a 
revelation. 

Well, after a week of all this, while Father and 
Mother were preparing for the four months’ trip, 
and Grandmother was fuming and fretting and or- 
dering all the servants about the place, it suddenly 
came to an end, this way: 

I had gone up to the house for a copy of Tenny- 
son for Auntie. Grandmother and Mother were sit- 
ting in the hall, sewing, and Father lying on the sofa 
out there. 

“What do you want with Tennyson, Harold?” 
asked Grandmother. 

I told her Auntie wanted it to read something to 
Cousin John. 

“Where is Eva?” she asked. 

“In the grove, Grandmother.” 

She arose, got the field glass, and stood at the win- 
dow looking down the grove. She looked a long 
time, and she didn’t seem to be pleased, but I didn’t 
see anything to be mad about. 

I heard Father chuckle softly under his breath, but 
I didn’t know what it meant. 

I hurried on with the book, for they were waiting 
for me. We stayed out in the grove playing and lis- 
tening to them read until the sun found our shady 
place and drove us in. 

Grandmother was still looking severe, but we dis- 
creetly kept well out of her way. 

Father and Mother were expecting to leave on 
Friday, and this was Wednesday. 

We had been well instructed as to our behavior 
during their absence. School was to begin again on 
Monday, so that would help to keep us out of mis- 
chief. 


8 jfour Sgontftg at ©lencaittt 

So imagine the consternation of the family when 
on Thursday morning Grandmother announced at 
breakfast that she had decided to return to Atlanta 
— going that very day. She was all packed then. 
There was nothing the matter with Father, she said 
— the heat had only prostrated him that morning he 
had been taken sick, and a change for him was en- 
tirely unnecessary. 

We nearly clapped our hands with delight. 

“Yes, Grandmother/’ Paul piped, “the country is 
too dull for you, and Auntie can take care of us 
just as well. You can go home.” 

But Grandmother withered him with a look. 

Father and Mother were too outdone to talk. 
Auntie, I believe, had been crying, for her face was 
flushed; while Cousin John was struck dumb with 
astonishment; so Grandmother had all the conversa- 
tion to herself, but she was equal to it. 

Well, go she did, and Auntie with her ; and now we 
were in the same dilemma again. 

“What was to be done with the children?” 

But on Sunday the trouble seemed settled for us. 
Father suddenly fainted again, and it took Mother 
and Cousin John a long, long time to bring him back 
to consciousness. 

Cousin John wrote for the doctor, the same one 
from the city, and fortunately he got to us that after- 
noon, for Father did not look right at all. The doc- 
tor shook his head, asked many questions, then said 
to Mother, “Why did you delay? Why did you not 
go at once? I told you it was important, and here 
you have delayed two weeks. This is serious now. 
Your husband is an ill man, madam.” 

Poor Mother looked as if he had struck her. 

The doctor stayed all night, but Father grew 
worse, rather than better, and by morning he was so 
ill the doctor told Cousin John if there were any rel- 


jfotir ggontflg at (SH encattn 9 

atives at a distance, who might wish to come, a tele- 
gram should be sent at once. 

So Mother told Cousin John to telegraph for Uncle 
James Theydon, Father’s only brother. 

School did not begin, for Cousin John did not leave 
Father’s bedside, and sorrowful and awfully lone- 
some days those were for us. 

Uncle James came Tuesday afternoon. 

Father was still living, but unconscious. He did 
not notice Uncle. 

Mother* I believe, forgot that she had any chil- 
dren during that dreadful time. 

Mauma looked after us right well though, but oh ! 
we were utterly miserable. 

One afternoon in the following week Uncle 
James strolled into the schoolroom, which was a 
basement room opening into the garden. 

We four were in there, trying to keep still and 
feeling especially unhappy. 

We had hardly seen him up to this afternoon, for 
at meal times he would send Cousin John out and 
stay with Father himself, “lest there be two to 
nurse,” he said. Cousin John was getting thin and 
pale. 

Well, this afternoon, Uncle walked in, and, seeing 
us all sitting in the deserted room, limp and listless, 
his eyes shone suddenly, as if tears had come into 
them, and, sweeping us all up in one grasp, he said, 
“Poor little youngsters! Don’t you be so miserable. 
Father is not dead, and I don’t believe he is going 
to die. Something in here tells me so,” tapping his 
heart. “Nothing has ever downed him yet, and I 
don’t believe this will. He is so plucky. Cheer up ! 
Don’t cross the bridge till you get there. I think he 
is better to-day. I bet you anything the doctor will 
say so, too, when he comes.” 

He was so confident, and looked so big and hand- 


10 


jFoitr 00ontf)0 at ©Iencaittt 


some, we felt roused immediately, and ever so much 
relieved. Uncle infused his faith into us, and I 
wanted to run and tell Mother right away that Fath- 
er wasn’t going to die, but he wouldn’t let me.” 

And Uncle was right. The doctor did say that 
very thing, and Father began to rally and improve 
from that day; and he (the doctor) preached rest, 
and a trip abroad once more. 

Mother needed a change, too, now; besides, she 
never would have let him go alone ; so there seemed 
nothing for it but that they would have to leave us 
at Theydon Hall with Cousin John and Mauma. In- 
deed, such was their plan, when the doctor knocked 
that up by saying to Cousin John, “You look to me 
like a candidate for fever, young man. Take my 
advice and freshen up a few weeks in the mountains, 
or go with Mr. Theydon.” 

Then all noticed how badly Cousin John did look, 
and insisted that he should go. 

“What shall we do with the children?” was the 
one thought with our parents during those conva- 
lescent days. 

Finally Grandmother Chase wrote that she would 
take the three youngest children if Mauma came 
along to care for them. 

Uncle James was never present while these dis- 
cussions were going on. 

“It would look too much like a hint,” Father said. 

Uncle was busy seeing after the plantation af- 
fairs. 

But one day he said to Father, “Don’t you feel 
strong enough for your trip yet, Brother? Why don’t 
you go?” Then Father told him. 

“Well, that’s just like me,” he exclaimed. “So 
stupid! Why didn’t I think? It’s because Sarah 
does all the thinking for me, I guess. Well, don’t 
let that keep you another day. I’ll take them all 


II 


jFout auontfcs at ©lencatm 

back to Glencairn when I go. I’ll be delighted to 
have them, too; so, don’t you have a moment’s un- 
easiness about them, for they’ll be taken care of all 
right.” 

And Father and Mother were thankful to have it 
so; only Mother said, not seven — only four, should 
go — we four — to Glencairn, and the three little ones 
to Grandmother in Atlanta. 

But it wasn’t settled yet. Uncle James and Bessie 
had struck up a mighty affection for one another — 
her beauty always charmed strangers — and he 
wouldn’t hear of her not coming with us. 

“We have a big house and plenty of servants. It 
won’t worry us in the least, and I particularly want 
Bessie.” 

Grown up people never know how much they 
bother children. Now, in our home, there was a dis- 
tinct division between those in the schoolroom and 
those in the nursery. 

The schoolroom children were known as “Us” — 
and the nursery as “They,” — and to have a “They” 
tagging on after “Us” would be horrible, to say the 
least, and Bessie especially. 

We retired to our schoolroom to grumble over it, 
when in she walked, feeling large and supposing her- 
self promoted to “Us.” 

“Did you know that I am going with you to Glen- 
cairn? Uncle James wants me particularly.” 

“Bessie, if I were you,” I said persuasively, “I’d 
go to Atlanta. You’ll have lots more fun there.” 

“Besides,” added Phil, opening his eyes and speak- 
ing in mysterious tones, “Did you know, Bessie, that 
Aunt Sarah is a Yankee? Yankee — mind you,” in 
most impressive tones. 

“What is a Yankee?” she asked, opening her eyes 
wide and growing very serious. 

“It’s a — a — I just don’t quite know, but I think it’s 


12 


jFour s@otttbs! at Olettcatrtt 


a kind of a beast,” piped Paul. “It takes your things 
from you — I know that. It took Father's fine horses 
and all the old silver and beautiful furniture, and 
stuck bayonets through the pictures. I wouldn’t go 
there, if I were you, for anything in this world. We 
are big and can defend ourselves, but you are so 
little.” 

“Will she take my doll if I go?” she half whis- 
pered, evidently very much impressed, but a hearty 
laugh at the window made us turn, then duck our 
heads and flush crimson, for there stood Uncle 
James. 

This was the reason why Uncle James was a 
stranger to us, though living in the same state. 
Uncle had gone north just after the war and had 
married Miss Sarah Chadwick, a New York woman, 
whom he had met years before when he was at 
West Point and she a mere girl on a visit there. 

Father’s home and plantation had suffered greatly 
at the hands of the marauding army, and he was 
still so irascible over it that upon hearing of this 
forthcoming marriage to a “Yankee woman” he had 
written a letter to Uncle that made him furious ; and 
his reply had incensed Father in return, so that all 
communication between them had ceased; and they 
had neither seen nor heard of each other from that 
time, now nine years ago, until the telegram came 
summoning Uncle to Father’s bedside. 

There were only these two, and they had been de- 
voted brothers; and glad they were to clasp hands 
and to meet once more in the same old close relation- 
ship. 

No questions were asked about Aunt Sarah 
neither had Uncle been communicative. 

Well, as I said, there stood Uncle James at the 
open window, just behind us, and he had evidently 
heard all we had been saying. 


jfout Qgontftg at <g>lettcaitn 13 

“We were just teasing Bessie,” I said, as soon as 
I recovered from my confusion. 

“You naughty children,” he laughed. Then, turn- 
ing to Bessie, he said, “Don’t you be afraid to come, 
little Beauty. Aunt Sarah is tame — pretty tame. I 
have her well in hand. I’ll shake my finger at her, if 
she so much as dares to touch your doll.” Then, 
whistling softly, he walked away. 

When Bessie told Mother all of this, she was sim- 
ply shocked, and scolded us roundly. 

We were to make no allusion to Aunt Sarah being 
from the north, and were to remember that we were 
her guests. 

She apologized to Uncle James for us, and said 
we were such little ignoramuses he would have to 
overlook and excuse many things. 

We did not succeed in scaring Bessie oflf, though. 

Phil declared he would not go if she did. 

“Will you kindly tell me how you are going to 
manage this, my son?” I asked, laughing. 

“Oh, don’t let us worry any more about this,” said 
Nan, “Bessie is not so bad.” And as it was in- 
evitable, we took her advice. 

So now, after one month’s delay, it was all set- 
tled. 

Grandmother did a great thing for us ; it made us 
all forgive her. She sent an immense box of new, 
pretty, stylish clothes for each one of us in it. 

“ ’E bite ain’t as bad as ’e bark,” said sage Mauma, 
which Mother said was impertinence. 

“We hurt her pride,” Father laughed. 

We had never thought much about clothes until 
Grandmother’s visit. She and Auntie had made 
themselves merry over their fit and styles. 

“Do you feel yourself above patterns, Sister?” 
asked Aunt Eva — and another time “Have you lost 


i4 JFour S©ontl)S at ©lettcafrit 


your shears? You use a hatchet to cut their clothes 
out with, don’t you?” 

And we heard Grandmother say, “Boys’ pants are 
never gathered into a band, Daughter.” 

Mother always laughed good naturedly and said 
she didn’t worry about our clothes ; these were good 
enough for the plantation — they were clean, at any 
rate, but that she had always taught us to take care 
of our hair, teeth and nails, and no fault could be 
found with us in that respect, she was sure. 

But these criticisms had made us self conscious 
as to our clothes, and consequently we hailed this 
grand box with delight. 

This visit to Glencairn was a great event in the 
lives of all of us. We had not been from Theydon 
Hall since before the twins, Nan and Phil, were 
born. 

Mother felt very nervous at the thought of our 
separation from her and anxious, too, about our be- 
havior when at Uncle’s ; in fact, this became a sub- 
ject of jest at home before we left. 

If Mother happened to pass through a room where 
we were, she would stop and most earnestly impress 
on us how good we must be, and not to give any 
trouble while at Glencairn. 

“Remember,” she would say, “your Aunt Sarah 
is not accustomed to children. Now, my darlings, 
don’t disgrace yourselves.” 

And we promised, for the thousandth time, that 
we would be as immaculate as the little “Roder- 
icks.” 

At last Father said, irritably, “Good gracious, Nan- 
nie, why are you worrying yourself so? What on 
earth do you expect the children to do ?” 

“Oh, I am so afraid they will annoy Mrs. They- 
don. You don’t know how badly I feel about this 
visit, Philip. It’s an outrage, nothing more nor less, 


jFout Months at ©lencatcn 15 


for us to send five children to stay four months, per- 
haps longer, under the care of a woman that we have 
decidedly ignored all these years, and nothing but ac- 
tual necessity ever induced me to consent.” 

“Oh, no,” said Father, “I don’t feel badly about 
it at all. It’s Jim’s home, and naturally he wants my 
children to be with him.” 

“Yes,” said Mother, “it’s his home, but Mrs. They- 
don is the mistress there, and she is the one to bear 
all the trouble they are sure to give.” 

“Pshaw,” said Father, “it will do them good to 
have some young people in the house. I have always 
wished that my children knew Glencairn.” 

“They are noisy and wild,” continued Mother, not 
at all convinced, “and we have allowed them so much 
liberty that I do feel anxious about their behavior 
away from us. Brother James is very kind, but I 
see he will never hold them in check.” 

“Well,” said Father, “take warning, children, any 
wild pranks complained of at Glencairn — positively 
no Santa Claus at Christmas.” 

And we promised again, as we had done dozens 
of times before, to be, oh, so good. 

We had a great many pets — birds, squirrels, rab- 
bits, lambs, dogs, puppies, cats, kittens, colts and 
ponies. 

We told Daddy Caesar and Maum Hannah over 
and over again how to care for them. 

They assured us we would find them all there on 
our return. 

We wanted to take the dogs with us to hunt, but 
Mother said, “No, indeed.” 

We were allowed to take our guns, and the girls 
their favorite dolls. 

We were wildly excited over the packing of our 
trunks, and helped to carry them out into the hall, 
ready to begin our journey the next day. 


CHAPTER II. 


THE TRIP. 

But little sleep came to us that night, and early 
morning found us up and stirring. 

After breakfast, time hung a little heavily, we 
were so impatient to begin our journey — our very 
first. 

We went the round of our pets, stroking, patting 
and kissing them our farewell. 

There were many final instructions to be given to 
Daddy Caesar and Maum Hannah, for they were to 
be the caretakers of all about the house and prem- 
ises, and to Daddy George, who was to oversee the 
crops. 

At last, we were sent off to dress. When we 
gathered in the hall, there was much amusement on 
the part of the grown people over our admiration of 
ourselves in our new suits. 

“ I am sure,” shouted Nan, frisking about us, “that 
we must look just exactly like those little Roder- 
icks.” 

“Your aunt has shown great taste in her selec- 
tion of your suits,” Cousin John said very gravely. 

Which remark made Father and Uncle James ex- 
change glances and laugh behind Cousin John’s back. 

But I didn’t see anything funny about it. 

Finally we set off. Father, Mother, Uncle James, 
Cousin John, Nan, Bessie and Tom in the huge old- 
fashioned family coach, while we three boys went 
16 


jFouc QPontfcs at ©lencatrn 17 


in the wagon with the trunks. Mauma, with the 
baby, sat outside with Daddy George, who is our 
coachman. 

The servants and the plantation hands came to the 
grove to bid us all “good bye,” and to express their 
wishes that Father would come back home again 
well and strong. 

As we made a turn in the road — the last place 
from which our house could be seen, I took a fare- 
well look at the dear old place. There it stood — 
the big, brick house set in a grove of magnificent 
oaks, with long, gray moss swinging from the 
branches. 

I felt that great things were going to take place 
before I saw those walls again. What, I couldn’t 
imagine. 

All of our lives, up to four weeks back, had just 
been a perpetual round of a little study and a little 
play — and I could remember when we numbered 
three, then four, five, six, and now seven. These 
were events, varied by sundry birthdays and Christ- 
mases, that were always made gala days. 

But all that was just They don Hall — and now the 
gates had suddenly swung open and we were going 
into the great, big world to untried experiences. 

All these thoughts were running through my mind 
while we were driving down to the river landing, 
eight miles from the Hall. 

We had often been there, alone, and with Father. 

The boat was waiting, and we sailed down the river 
to the city. 

Mother had hoped that Tom would go to sleep, but 
instead “Little Sunbeam,” as we all called him at 
home, was grieving at the coming separation. 

“Look at Tom, Mother,” whispered Nan. And 
there he sat by Mauma, who had Margaret in her 


18 JFotir gjontf)0 at (glencaitn 

arms, with quivering lips and great tears hanging on 
his lashes and dropping on his cheeks. 

“Bring my darling to me, Nan,” said Mother, and 
then he began to sob in earnest, with his face hidden 
against her shoulder. 

We all came crowding around to comfort him. 
He is the household idol, adored by white and black, 
this beautiful little child, who has never been 
naughty, who is always sunny and bright, and who 
loves everybody and everything — and is, withal, so 
lovely to look at, with his fair skin, big blue eyes 
and golden curls. 

It hurt us to see him cry. Simultaneously we 
three boys stood up and began to search in various 
pockets for those dead mice and dead frogs, fish 
hooks and lines, marbles, cake crumbs and apple 
cores that tradition says boys always carry in their 
pockets ; but, alas, the suits were brand new — noth- 
ing could we find to divert him, nothing there but 
our clean handkerchiefs. Sighing, we sat down 
again. 

But Uncle had been searching, too. Here he came 
with a shining dollar, telling him to get Auntie to 
take him to a toy store and let him spend that money 
himself. 

Father took him on his knee and petted him, and 
told him to get Auntie to write out a long list of 
pretty things he wanted Santa Claus to bring him at 
Christmas. Mother took him back and hugged and 
kissed him and wiped the tears from his eyes. 

Nan dived into our lunch basket and brought out 
a cake for him. Then the smiles came back to his 
sweet little face. 

It was late in the afternoon and we were near the 
city. The spires of the churches and the taller pub- 
lic buildings could plainly be seen. 

There we were to separate into three parties — 


JFouc gjotttftg at (Slencatttt 19 

Mauma, Tom and Baby were to take one train going 
west; Uncle James and we five children another, 
northbound for Glencairn, while later Father, Moth- 
er and Cousin John, who had decided to go with 
them, so as to assist Mother in nursing, would board 
a steamer and begin their voyage on the water. 

When we landed in the city, whom should we meet 
but Auntie and Uncle Richard Chase, Mother’s 
brother. 

“We have come for the chicks,” said Auntie gaily. 
“We didn’t see how Nursie could manage with two 
babies all alone.” 

“I am so relieved,” said Mother. “You are so 
thoughtful and kind. It is good of you, Ritchie. 
How could you get away?” 

Uncle Ritchie is a doctor with a large practice. 
His wife is dead, and he has only one son, much 
older than I am, so he lives with Grandmother. We 
know him and Cousin Henderson, for they come 
quite frequently to Theydon Hall to hunt and fish 
for a rest, but they never can stay long. 

There was only time for a kiss or two, a hand- 
shake, a word or two with Father, Uncle James and 
Cousin John, when up came the train they were 
going to take. All the gentlemen helped them on. 

Bessie was crazy to go, too, when she saw Auntie, 
but it was too late to change her mind now. Th£ 
whistle blew, Father and all got off, and slowly they 
pulled away. 

“There is Tom in Auntie’s lap at the window,” 
whispered Nan. 

“He is laughing now, Mother,” said Paul, com- 
forting her. 

Kisses were thrown, hands waved, and they dis- 
appeared into the twilight, which was fast deepen- 
ing into night. 

“Here comes our train now,” said Uncle James, 


20 


jFouc Qgontfrg at (gleitcaicn 

pointing to a long streak of smoke in the distance. 
“Better get ready.” 

We began to grow excited. We kissed our par- 
ents and listened with thoughts far away to their 
oft-repeated injunctions. 

Phil and I tried to look cool and unconcerned, but 
we did feel so jolly. 

Nan and Paul frisked like kittens, while Bessie 
looked rather demure and still clung to Mother’s 
hand. 

At last the train came puffing and blowing to the 
station. 

“Oh, jubilee!” shouted Paul. “Aren’t you glad it’s 
come at last!” 

Phil and I forgot all about our manliness, and 
showed only too plainly by our grins of delight that 
this was an entirely new experience to us. 

They had spoken of our regularly undressing and 
going to sleep. 

“Sleep!” we shouted; “sleep on our first trip! 
No, no,” and then, remembering that Uncle James 
would be alone with five undressed, sleepy children, 
they let us have our way ; and up we were — seated — 
and very much awake, too. 

Some friends of Uncle were on the train, so he 
went into the smoking car to talk with them, leaving 
us all alone. 

We kept quiet for a time, then began to giggle. 
We looked out of the windows, at each other, at the 
people in the cars, and giggled, and giggled, and 
giggled. 

Presently a young man who was sitting near us 
put down the paper that he was trying to read, and 
began to giggle, too. 

“What is the matter with you all?” he said, and 
then, seeing no grown person near us, he remarked, 


jFout 00ontf)0 at ©lencatttt 


21 


“If you don’t stop that laughing, I’ll get the con- 
ductor to put you off when he comes in.” 

Bessie wanted to move from one side of the coach 
to the other, and little “Miss Propriety,” not being 
accustomed to walking on a moving floor, over she 
went upon her hands, and that looked so funny it 
set us off again. 

Paul saw a man getting water, and, feeling he had 
been still long enough, off he sauntered for some, 
too, and after filling the cup and drinking he stood 
there fumbling with the faucet, then came back 
without closing it. 

“Harold,” he whispered, “the old thing sticks. I 
can’t shut it.” 

I was just going to see about it, when a man came 
in and closed it, frowning when he saw the wet floor. 
Then he began going from seat to seat. 

Paul thought he was asking who left the faucet 
open, and squeezed in on the other side of Nan. 

When the man came to us he stretched out his 
hand, but didn’t say a word. 

He looked at Phil, and, thinking he had been 
spoken to, he answered, “It stuck. He couldn’t shut 
it.” 

Our young man threw back his head and shouted. 
But Uncle came in just then and gave him, the con- 
ductor, our tickets. 

Uncle found Bessie getting sleepy, so he fixed her 
comfortably on the opposite seat, then went back to 
the smoking car. 

“Where are you going?” asked our young man. 
“To Europe?” 

“No,” answered Paul. “To Glencairn.” 

“And where may that be ? I don’t know any such 
town.” 

“Oh, that is Uncle’s plantation,” I put in. “It’s 
near Winfield.” 


22 


JFout 0@ontf)0 at <S5Iettcaint 


“Oh, yes,” he laughed. “I know that little old 
mossy town.” 

“Is it mossy?” asked Nan in surprise. 

“Just green,” he laughed. 

“What’s your name?” asked Paul, after a long, 
scrutinizing gaze at his very red hair. 

“Jack Frost,” he said, but I don’t know whether 
he told the truth or not. 

Mother had given us a big lunch basket. We 
hauled it out, and found lots of buttered rolls and 
fried chicken. We offered it to Jack Frost. 

“Sure,” he said, and he thought the lunch as good 
as we did. 

We had lots of fun eating supper near midnight. 

Every now and then one of us would get sleepy 
and nod. That would be the signal for vigorous 
punches in the side. Then we would flatten our 
noses against the panes, trying to get the first glimpse 
of the city. 

When we did see it, we gave such a shout that it 
roused more old grumblers in the coach than we 
bargained for. 

“Can’t you brats keep still ?” one old sleepy fellow 
said. 

After that we tried to control ourselves, and did 
pretty well all the rest of the way, which was not 
long, as we were near the city. 

Uncle came in and roused Bessie, who imme- 
diately began to whimper for Mother, but no one 
heeded her, we were in such confusion just then, get- 
ting all of our traps together. 

Somehow we were all landed on the platform out- 
side. Our young man got off here, too, and helped 
Uncle James with us. 

We were all wide awake now, listening in aston- 
ishment to the hubbub around us. 


Jfout 9 §ontJjs at ©Iencaitn 23 


It was the porters and cabmen shouting all to- 
gether the names of their hotels and cabs. 

Uncle put us in an omnibus, then we went rolling 
along the city streets. The stores were closed, for it 
was after midnight. How we did wish that Uncle 
James lived there. 

Phil was so excited he somewhat lost his head. 
He got the idea that the omnibus was divided into 
two compartments and he thought the mirror in the 
back was a window, through which he could see the 
people riding in the other side. He did not notice 
that they were our own reflections. 

“The other side has lots of children in it, too,” he 
shouted. 

“The other side of what?” I asked. 

“In yonder. Don’t you see?” And he pointed to 
the mirror. 

I looked, and instantly saw his mistake. 

“They see us, too,” said Phil. “See, they are 
pointing at us.” 

“What sort of looking children are they, Phil?” 
asked Uncle. 

“Nice looking children, I think. Don’t you, Har- 
old? I wonder where they are going.” 

“Tap on the window and ask them,” said Uncle, 
his eyes just twinkling with amusement. 

Phil got up to do so, and as he walked towards 
the mirror saw his mistake and took his seat again, 
blushing like a girl with confusion. Everybody 
laughed. 

“Harold did not know either,” Phil said. 

“I did,” I exclaimed indignantly. . 

“Well, if you did,” said Nan, coming to her twin’s 
rescue, as usual, “it is not surprising, for you and 
Bessie are always gazing at yourselves in the glass.” 

“There now,” said Uncle, laughing. 


24 jfour 00oMt)0 at <2>Iencairtt 


“Mother said we were greenhorns,” drily remarked 
Paul. 

We had to wait for our train one hour, so we went 
to a hotel. Such a long, wide flight of stairs in that 
building. We went into the deserted parlor, all lit- 
tered and uncomfortable, for it was chilly at that 
late, or early, hour. 

There was nothing to amuse us, and we suddenly 
found ourselves tired and sleepy. 

We lounged on the sofas and chairs, but couldn’t 
sleep. Bessie wailed, and we felt cross. But our 
journey was near its end now. 

The train came, and in an hour we were at Win- 
field. Uncle’s carrriage was there, waiting for us, 
and in twenty minutes more, just about day dawn, 
we drove round to the back door at Glencairn. 

We followed Uncle James in, our hearts, I must 
confess, going pit-a-pat at the thought of meeting 
our Yankee Aunt. 

Much we had thought of her ever since we knew 
we were to come out here. 

We didn’t like her name. We associated it with 
a Sarah we knew, who lived on a farm near the 
river. She was the daughter of one of Theydon 
PlaH’s former overseers. She was sandy-skinned, 
sandy-haired, raw-boned and lanky. She talked 
through her nose and was as unpleasant in her speech 
as she was in her person. 

It was just such an individual we expected now 
to meet in Aunt Sarah. But there was no Aunt Sarah 
to meet us. 

Uncle called Christiana, and a sleepy, tall, mulatto 
woman appeared, Aunt Sarah’s maid, we afterwards 
found. 

Uncle left us with her. She took us upstairs and, 
leaving us in the room to the left of the hall, carried 


jFout gjotttfrg at (glcncattit 25 

the girls off to the room just opposite, where we 
could hear Bessie wailing. 

We boys threw ourselves across the bed, too sleepy 
to undress, and in a second we were sound asleep. 


CHAPTER III. 


GLENCAIRN. 

I think it was Bessie that roused us at last. I am 
sure we heard her plainly enough when we did wake 
up. 

“Still wailing,” groaned Phil. “I wish she had 
gone to Atlanta, that I do.” 

We sat up, and the first thing we thought of was 
that in a few minutes we would meet that aunt. 

“I wish it was over, don’t you?” said Phil. “We 
are too big to be kissed, are we not, Harold? But, 
ha ! ha ! ha ! She will kiss old Paul, though.” 

Paul had tumbled off his bed with “Gee, ain’t I 
glad I’m dressed,” and we had to threaten to hold 
him down and wash his face for him before we could 
make him “ablute.” He was now standing in the 
middle of the floor brushing his short crop of curls 
with all his might, when this terrible possibility 
reached his ears. 

“No, she won’t either,” he said, stoutly. “If she 
dares, I’ll— I’ll ” 

“Hush up,” I said, applying my toe to him, “and 
hurry.” 

Just then a tap at the door quieted us immediately. 

“There she is, now,” whispered Phil. 

“Come in,” I callecf faintly, and in walked Nan, 
who exploded, when she saw our scared faces and 
rolling eyes. She almost laughed herself into hys- 
terics. 


26 


JFout #ontf)S at (Slettcaittt 27 


“You did look so funny! Ha, ha, ha! Ha, ha, 
ha !” she cried, rocking back and forth on the edge of 
the bed, the tears actually running down her cheeks. 

“What did you scare us in that way for?” laughed 
Phil, taking hold of her shoulders and shaking her. 
“We thought you were Aunt Sarah.” 

We all had to laugh, for I saw Phil, and Phil saw 
me, and we both saw Paul. 

Nan straightened us here and there, smoothed us 
down, retied Paul’s necktie, and pronounced us ready 
for the ordeal. 

Slowly we went downstairs, the padded steps 
deadening our footfalls. 

In the hall below, seeing no one, we walked toward 
the front room, where we heard voices. 

It was Uncle speaking in contrite tones. 

“If I had known, Sarah, that you were going to be 
so piping hot about it, I would have thought twice 
before I spoke. But, really, I don’t see what I can 
do now. They are here, and their parents on the 
water by this time ; so, dear, try to put up with them 
for my sake. I understand just how you feel about 
it, and think you have every reason to be angry. I 
just didn’t know how to get out of it — and it does 
seem only natural to have Brother’s children here, 
too. Now, I promise you it shall not give you the 
least annoyance. I will assume all responsibility and 

the management of them myself ; so There they 

are now,” he whispered, as he looked up and saw 
us standing in the doorway. Then, in quite another 
tone, he called to us : “Here you are at last. I have 
been waiting for the last half hour to introduce you 
to Aunt Sarah. Come and speak to her.” 

We stood for a minute rooted to the spot. First, 
we felt mortified to the quick by what we had over- 
heard, and, second, the Aunt Sarah of our imagina- 
tion clapped her wings and sailed away, leaving in 


28 jFout gjgontfig at (glcncairtt 

her place a tall, slender lady, dressed in white, not 
much older looking than Auntie, graceful, erect and 
very angry — we could see that by the poise of her 
head and flushed cheeks. 

Uncle introduced us, and she got control of herself 
sufficiently to receive us with cold courtesy. 

She did not clasp Paul’s skinny little frame to her 
bosom, nor imprint any kisses on his angelic brow, 
nor on Nan’s, either, for that matter, which oversight 
caused Paul’s face suddenly to spread into a grin of 
delight, as surreptitiously he put his tongue into his 
cheek and winked his eye at me. 

But he missed his angle and Aunt Sarah caught 
him at it and looked disgusted. 

“Where is my pet ?” asked Uncle. 

“Christiana is dressing her,” Nan answered tim- 
idly. 

Then Uncle went out. 

We four were completely crushed by Aunt Sarah’s 
dignity, bashful and ill at ease. Little Paul assumed 
his expression of “my last friend gone,” shut his 
long mouth, turned down the corners and gazed into 
space with agonized eyes of woe. 

Nan was on the verge of hysterics. I was in mis- 
ery lest we should fall into giggles from sheer nerv- 
ousness. 

Aunt Sarah was opening the mail that lay on the 
table before her. She picked up a letter and scru- 
tinized the handwriting as if it was not familiar, then 
looked at the postmark. 

I recognized Mother’s writing and remembered 
that the night before we left home she had gone to 
the library, saying to Father and Cousin John that 
she had “the letter of her life to write.” 

^ This must have been it. I saw a curious expres- 
sion flit over Aunt Sarah’s face, and I wanted her to 
break the seal and read it at once, so that I could 


iFout S©ont&0 at ©lencaint 29 


judge by her countenance what she thought of it; 
but the door opened and in walked tearful Bessie and 
diverted attention from the letter and from us. 

Bessie, having always been a pet, and never 
dreaming that her presence was not agreeable to 
everybody, at all times, walked straight to Aunt Sarah 
and held up her little wet face to be kissed — so im- 
mediately found her way towards the heart of our 
Yankee Aunt and got the advantage of us as usual. 

Mother says we are jealous of Bessie, that she 
really has wonderful tact; but Mother is soft on 
Bessie. We know she is an exasperating little thing, 
and tries our patience dreadfully. 

Of course, we see she is a remarkably beautiful 
child, and we have heard strangers rave over her 
complexion, her hair, her eyes, her features and her 
lovely grace and manners ; but so has she, and there 
lies the trouble — she thinks only of herself. She 
never romps, she never soils her clothes or hands. 
She always looks, as the saying is, as if “she has 
just come out of the bandbox/' 

But what is that to us? Give us Nan, who is as 
good a boy as any of us; “Little Tomboy," Father 
calls her. 

She is worth twenty Bessies, “Little Cry-baby" 
we call her. Paul says he can’t see why she hasn’t 
melted long ago. 

Uncle came back and took her on his knee, fon- 
dling her and asking Aunt Sarah if she wasn’t a 
darling — so Miss Bessie dried her eyes and became 
quite animated, endearing herself every moment 
more and more by her pretty ways. 

We noticed, however, that Aunt Sarah was not 
particularly enthusiastic. 

“You are quite ready for breakfast now, are you 
not?" said Uncle. 

He rang for Christiana, and when she came he 


3Q JFouc ggontfrg at <g>Iencaittt 

told us to go with her to the dining room and that 
she would attend to us. 

Glad were we to get out of that room. The woman 
hastened on before us, giving Paul an opportunity 
to revive his drooping spirits and to gratify his love 
of teasing Bessie by remarking in a low tone to her 
that Christiana was going to be her Ma now. 

This brought forth loud wails, intended for Uncle's 
and Aunt Sarah’s ears. 

Phil, more emphatically than elegantly, told her 
to “dry up,” and, taking hold of her, we retreated 
in haste to the dining room. 

“We’s in for a bad time, Mr. Gourdine,” remarked 
Christiana to the butler, as we came in. 

“So I poceives, Miss White,” he sympathetically 
acquiesced. 

After breakfast we went on the piazza. Uncle was 
there, waiting to take Bessie to town with him. She 
went off in high glee, and we began to reconnoiter 
and acquaint ourselves with Uncle’s premises. 

The house at Glencairn was built on quite an ele- 
vation. From the piazza we looked upon a wide ex- 
panse of woods and fields whitening with cotton. In 
front of the house was a beautiul lawn ornamented 
here and there with magnificent trees. 

The public road lay beyond, then rolling hills, cov- 
ered with woods of oak, hickory, walnut, maple and 
pine. 

There was a broad gravel carriage drive from the 
front gates to the steps of the house, and a narrow 
one to the left of the lawn, made by Uncle, who per- 
sisted in driving round to the back of the house 
whenever he chose. 

The lawn extended far around to the left, then 
sloped gently down to a little stream that ran purl- 
ing and gurgling to the pond. Beyond the stream 


JFo ut cpontfjs at ©Icttcairn 31 

lay acres of cotton fields, the pickers, with their bags 
slung from their shoulders, going from row to row. 

It was so quiet we could hear them sing and laugh. 

To the right of the house lay the garden and or- 
chard, two or three acres, filled with flowers, bushes, 
vegetables and fruit. 

Everywhere there was evidence of wealth. 

We had heard Father say everything Uncle put 
his hand to was a success. 

It was all very charming, but we wanted to talk, 
where no one could possibly overhear us. 

So we ran down to the brook. 

There we began to talk all at once. 

“Isn’t she beautiful?” 

“To think Aunt Sarah should look like that.” 

“Why, she is what Mother calls a girl.” 

“Isn’t it dreadful to be where you are not wanted?” 

“Hasn’t she beautiful black hair? So soft and 
dusky !” 

“Her hands and feet are so small and slender. I 
like small feet; they look so dainty.” 

“Do you think she is not going to speak at all?” 

“We had better keep out of her way. You heard 
what Uncle said. He was not going to let us annoy 
her in the least.” 

“What made her mad? I don’t see,” asked Paul, 
who didn’t quite understand. 

“I think,” said Nan, who has a keen sense of jus- 
tice, “I’d be mad, too. I think I like her for getting 
so angry.” 

“I didn’t think a Yankee looked like that.” 

“Wasn’t that a pretty dress she wore?” 

“I wish I knew what Mother wrote.” 

“Excuse my blunderbusses,” mimicked Phil, at 
which we laughed, but also exclaimed, “For shame, 
Phil !” 


32 jFour egjontfrs at <S 5 lcncafrtt 

“If she’s going to be mean, I want to go home/’ 
said Paul. 

“Just keep out of her way, Paul.” 

“Four whole months,” sighed Nan. “Our visit is 
spoiled.” 

“No, it isn’t,” I said. “We are here. We can’t 
help it. It is Uncle’s home, and he had a right to 
bring us here, though he did say he couldn’t get out 
of it. So I say, let us keep out of her way and try to 
get as much fun out of this visit as we can. Those 
woods look fine. Let’s go over there.” 

So saying, we crossed the branch, walked to the 
road, and then went on into the woods. 

So it happened that we were far away when the 
vigorous ringing of a bell fell upon our ears. 

“Dinner,” exclaimed Nan, aghast, “and we are 
going to keep her waiting.” 

“Don’t disturb yourself,” I laughed. “She’ll not 
wait on us. 

At the house we met Christiana, who told us 
sharply that dinner was nearly over. She wouldn’t 
hear of our going to our rooms to make ourselves 
more tidy. 

“Can’t wait on a parcel of chilluns all day,” she 
growled, as she opened the door and ushered us in. 

Aunt Sarah’s eyes fell immediately on our rather 
soiled hands, for we had been playing in the branch, 
and with a little twitch of an eyebrow she seemed to 
be saying to herself : “How can I stand this?” 

We were nervous. We thought she was criticiz- 
ing every movement, and I could but remember 
Mother’s many injunctions not to disgrace ourselves. 
Our table manners were not so bad ; we knew how to 
use knives and forks properly, although, sometimes, 
we preferred our fingers. 

But Phil is not to be depended upon. We knew it 


JFottt ggotttfrg at (glettcaitit 33 

would come sooner or later — and it came very much 
sooner. 

When ill at ease, he has the funniest little flourish- 
ing movements imaginable. The gravy was passed 
to him. Up went the ladle with this flourish, splash 
went the gravy, mostly outside his plate, upon the 
spotless tablecloth. 

It was awful ! 

We turned as red as he did, all but Bessie, who 
murmured in honeyed tones : “Aunt Sarah, you must 
really excuse him. He is such a careless boy.” 

“O, pshaw,” said Uncle. “Tablecloths can wash. 
I soil them myself sometimes — used to,” he added, as 
he caught Aunt Sarah’s gaze. 

Poor Phil was too embarrassed to say a word. It 
is an everyday occurrence at home. 

We call him “the man with the dropsy.” 

But you should see Bessie at the table. The dain- 
tiness with which she holds a cup or goblet — the little 
finger quirled out — wiping her rosebud lips before 
and after drinking — can only be seen to be appre- 
ciated. We had passed many a meal at home chok- 
ing down suppressed merriment caused by Paul, who 
was slyly mimicking her, his face as demure as a 
saint’s, copying, with exact exaggeration, every mo- 
tion, until she had to be carried away in wails and 
Paul sent off in disgrace. 

After dinner we went to the back of the house to 
get acquainted with that part of the premises. 

Out there we found Ike, a colored boy, and struck 
up a friendship with him. 

He took us to see the horses, cows, sheep, pigs, 
goats, mules, donkeys, turkeys, ducks, chickens, pig- 
eons, pheasants, dogs, cats— what didn’t Uncle have ? 

He pointed out the peacocks perched on a tree in 
the garden. We had only seen pictures of these 
birds and were delighted to think we could now see 


34 JFout 90cmtl)0 at <£5Iencatnt 

them fan out their brilliant tail feathers and strut 
about with our own eyes. 

Everything about the place was in perfect order, 
from the barns and stables, to the dog kennels and 
pigeon cotes. 

Ike told us of the fox hunts that Uncle would 
have in the winter. 

“I lies in bed,” he said, “an’ I hears de horns just 
a-tooting, an’ I hears Mars Jeems an’ de dogs an’ de 
udder gemmans just a-goin’ by, an’ I says, ‘Mar, 
Marse Jeems gwine ketch sumptin’ dis mornin\” 

We hoped Uncle would let us go, too, sometimes. 

“Marse Jeems got de bes’ horses an’ de bes’ 
hounds in de country,” he proudly asserted. 

He took us to see Aunt Sarah’s own horse — the 
prettiest on the plantation. 

Then he led us to the pond and told us great tales 
of the fishing that had taken place there. 

So, altogether, we returned to the house very much 
pleased that this was to be our home for the next 
four months, and forgetting that Aunt Sarah, the 
mistress of it all, heartily wished us ten thousand 
miles away. 

The cotton wagons were coming in from the fields 
when we returned to the house, crowded with the 
pickers and their baskets, all going to have their 
days’ work weighed and checked up for their Satur- 
day payments. 

They were singing negro melodies, which sounded 
very sweet. 

As the sun had set, we went to the house. 

On the front piazza sat Aunt Sarah and Bessie. 

We went upstairs and fixed up, for we did not 
wish to shock her again. 

When we returned to the piazza, I sat down on 
the steps and took a good look at our aunt. She was 
reclining in her chair, her hands lying idle in her 


jFout Spontijs at ©lencatttt 35 


lap, absolutely unconscious of our presence. Her 
face was very, very sad, as if her thoughts gave her 
pain. 

I wondered what she was thinking about. 

I thought her the most beautiful woman I had 
ever seen, even more beautiful than Auntie. 

I don’t count Mother with other ladies — she’s 
Mother — always just what she ought to be. I never 
stop to think about how she looks. 

She is always lovely to me. 

But here was fine clothes, fair, white skin, beauti- 
ful hair and eyes, beautiful hands and feet, an ex- 
quisite mouth and chin, and, with it all, what is meant 
when you call a person graceful or say that she has a 
gracious manner. 

Anyway, she sat in that chair in a way I liked. 
But I was curious to know what made her look so 
sad. Every trace of anger was gone. 

Uncle came on the piazza before she roused from 
her reverie, and I think he knew, for he went up to 
her and kissed her so tenderly, then she smiled, but 
her eyes were full of tears. 

I liked Aunt Sarah. “She’s square,” I thought. 
“She doesn’t like children much, and she was as 
mad as she could be that Uncle had brought us home 
with him — but she is not mean.” 

Uncle sat down and immediately lifted Bessie to 
his knee. He was so jolly, and we were beginning to 
feel a little homesick, that we wanted to hang about 
him, but we were afraid of Aunt Sarah. 

Presently the tea bell rang and he shook Bessie, 
saying, “There, little girl, do you hear that? My! I 
do believe she is sound asleep.” 

So Christiana was called, and the child carried off, 
too sleepy, this time, to wail. 

At tea Uncle did most of the talking. We had 
been trained to be quiet at meal times, listening, 


36 jFout S©otitf)g at ©lencaint 


rather than making ourselves heard. No one noticed 
the misdemeanors of the “Man with the dropsy,” 
though they were apparent to all that had eyes to 
see. 

Aunt Sarah was silent, still in mind far away. 
Uncle, after trying to interest her, addressed the con- 
versation to us, asking us where we had been and 
what we had seen. 

After tea we went out on the piazza again. It 
was a lovely night. The full moon was just rising 
above the tops of the trees. 

We children sat down on the steps and watched 
the trees become silvered and the long shadows fall 
upon the grass. 

It was peaceful and quiet, but, oh! our little 
hearts were aching with homesickness. Paul slipped 
his hand into Nan’s, and we all sat close together. 

Uncle and Aunt Sarah were walking up and down 
the long piazza talking. 

We were so quiet — indeed, we were struggling 
with our tears — that Uncle, at last, asked if we were 
asleep, then sent us off to bed. 

So we said “good-night” and went upstairs. 

So ended our first day at Glencairn. 

I lay awake for some time, then I must have dozed, 
for I had a dream about angels singing, and at last 
found myself wide awake listening to the most heav- 
enly music that had ever fallen on my ears. I did not 
know the song, nor could I hear the words, but the 
voice went to my heart. 

I wondered if it could be Aunt Sarah. 


CHAPTER IV. 


THE SKIRMISH. 

The next morning we were wakened by a mournful 
pit-a-patter on the roof. 

“I do believe it is raining,” said Paul. 

‘‘That’s just what it’s doing,” I answered. 

“What will we do all day?” asked Phil in dismay. 

“Keep out of her way,” said Paul. 

It was late, so we got up and dressed. 

“I bet you she’ll be cranky about muddy feet,” 
said Phil. 

“That she’ll be,” I assented. “We had better be 
sure to remember the door mats.” 

Down stairs we found a cheerful fire in the dining 
room. 

Breakfast was on the table, and Daddy Stephen 
told us to sit down, for Aunt Sarah would take her 
breakfast in her room and Uncle had gone to town 
early. 

We ate hastily, then donning our raincoats, pro- 
ceeded to enjoy ourselves out of doors. 

But the day grew more and more disagreeable, 
and forced us to return to the house. 

We stood at the window of the upper hall, look- 
ing out on the melancholy scene. 

The wind came sweeping in gusts around the 
house, the low clouds went scudding from the east, 
the rain dashed against the panes, while a heavy mist 
37 


38 JFour $©ont!)g at (Slencaint 


shrouded the woods that surrounded the premises. 

It certainly was calculated to make us more home- 
sick than ever, for the house was so still; not a 
soul seemed to be stirring. 

Such days at Theydon Hall were in perfect con- 
trast to this. Mother always contrived to make them 
especially delightful for us. 

She said they were her days for getting intimately 
acquainted with her children. 

She often got Cousin John to shorten our lessons, 
so as to have a half holiday. 

We would make candy and Maum Hannah would 
cook little cakes and Mother would play with us, and 
it was so, so nice. 

We would even have been thankful to have had 
lessons to occupy us this morning. It was dreadful! 
There was actually nothing to do, nothing to read, 
nothing to play with, nobody to talk to. 

We don’t know just exactly how it began, but we 
certainly did drift, before the morning was over, 
into the most hilarious, lawless game of romps that 
we had enjoyed for a long time. 

We forgot it was Glencairn, we forgot all about 
Aunt Sarah, we chased each other all over our room, 
up and down our hall, up the attic stairs, into Nan’s 
room, had pillow fights, yelled like wild Indians, slid 
down the attic banisters; in fact, turned our rooms 
topsy turvy. 

Phil was standing on his bed with the bolster held 
high, daring us to come on, when the door flew open 
and Christiana, infuriated, made her appearance. 

“Stop dis noise !” she shouted. “Stop dis noise di- 
rectly. What doin’s is dis!” 

Then, glancing around the room, she threw up her 
hands in horror, exclaiming, “O, my Lord! What 
would Miss Sarah say ef she could see dis room 
now. And look at dem muddy foots all over dese 


Jfout ^orttfts at ©lencatrtt 39 

nice, white bedspreads. We never seen de like ob dis 
sence I been in dis house. Get off dat bed dis. min- 
ute.” 

“Did Aunt Sarah send you here to bluster around 
in this way?” I asked. 

“No, I corned ob myself. I ain’t goin’ let no chil- 
luns run ober me. You just wait till Marse Jeems 
come. I’ll deport you to him, an’ we’ll see w’at he 
say to all dis’.’ 

“Now, look here,” I said, for I was mad. “It 
makes a great deal of difference whether Aunt Sarah 
sent you or not. You are crazy, if you think we are 
going to obey you. Say, now, did she send you or 
not ?” 

“Go on! Go on!” she said in exasperating tones. 
“Just tear up eberyt’ing.” 

“Hit her on the head with your bolster, Phil,” I 
said. 

No sooner said than done. Away flew the bolster. 
“Bang!” it took one side, and, before she had time 
to recover, Paul’s pillow came flying from the other 
bed. 

“You nasty buzzards!” she yelled, “I’ll box your 
jaws,” and she flew like a tigress straight at Phil, 
who quickly, as well as the rest of us, got on the 
other side of the bed. 

Then began a lively chase, always keeping the bed 
between us. When she jumped on the bed, we rushed 
behind the headboard. 

Such fun as we had ! Real sport. For she would 
have given us something to remember, if she could 
have caught us. 

But we were not called the “fleet-footed little 
Theydons” for nothing. 

At last, tired out and baffled, she went off, nearly 
in tears, saying either she or we had to leave that 


40 jfour sgtotidjs at ©lencaint 

house; she would not stand “such doin’s as dese” 
one day longer. 

We held a consultation after her departure, for our 
spirits were somewhat dampened by the interruption. 

We thought I had better go down and apologize 
to Aunt Sarah, so in some trepidation I descended 
and rapped upon the sitting room door. Receiving 
no answer, I went to the library, where I found 
Daddy Stephen dusting. He told me with an air of 
resignation that Aunt Sarah was in her room, ill 
with a nervous headache. 

I returned to the children considerably crestfallen, 
and in addition informed them Uncle James had 
come and was on his way to the house. 

We immediately became very quiet, speaking in 
whispers, moving about on tiptoe, and hastened to 
put our room in order. 

When we went down to lunch we found Christiana 
in a towering rage “deporting” us to Uncle. 

“Miss Sarah has a headache?” he asked in much 
concern. 

“The worstest she has ever had — nothing but them 
chilluns,” Christiana went on. 

But Uncle left her with her complaints unfinished 
and went to Aunt Sarah. 

And we, at a safe distance, executed a noiseless 
war dance, for her benefit, calculated to exasperate 
her still more. 

Uncle looked worried when he came back. 

After lunch he called us into the library and said, 
“Look here, children. Positively you must keep quiet 
this afternoon. Aunt Sarah is suffering dreadfully.” 

“O, Uncle, we are so sorry,” we hastened to apolo- 
gize. 

“We didn’t know noise could hurt well people.” 

“We forgot we were not at home.” 

“We are going to be as still as mice now.” 


JFour Months at Olencairtt 41 

“I doubt if the noise made her sick. Dear Sarah,” 
he said, gazing into the coals and looking as if he had 
forgotten us, “I was afraid she would have a ner- 
vous headache this morning.” 

It is needless to say that Bessie had not been in 
the melee. No, indeed. She had been playing quietly 
with Nan’s doll in a corner of their room. No romps 
for Bessie. 

Uncle proposed after dinner that we all should 
write to Father and Mother. 

So we spent a very quiet and comfortable after- 
noon in the library, writing, at his suggestion, “a 
round robin” to them, each one trying to put into it 
everything that had happened, and to describe every 
one we had met since we told them “good bye” last 
Thursday night. 

It seemed like a month ago. 

Towards dusk Uncle came to see how we were 
getting on. He seated himself and took out his pipe 
for a smoke. 

We came crowding around, not being restrained 
by Aunt Sarah’s presence, for we were a little home- 
sick again. 

Bessie got in his lap, Paul sat on one arm of his 
chair and Nan on the other, while we were on has- 
socks at either knee. 

He saw it made us happier to hang about him, 
so he did not repulse us. 

I think he was feeling a little lonesome himself, 
without his “Sarah.” 

He puffed away in silence, nearly suffocating us 
with smoke, then said, “Children, I have been think- 
ing. You know, I am afraid I’ll have to send you to 
school. Will you mind very much? Mt. Jericho is a 
very good school, and every one speaks in the high- 
est terms of Mr. Marks as a teacher. 

“You see, Aunt Sarah has never been accustomed 


42 jFour spont&s at <S 5 lcncaint 


to boys, and I can’t let you annoy her. School will 
help to keep you out of mischief, and then there will 
be the lessons to prepare. I won’t be at home in the 
mornings for some weeks now, to keep you in order. 

“You see it will be quite after four when you get 
back from school. 

“What do you say? Don’t you think you will 
like it?” 

We acquiesced at once, and showed such a thor- 
ough appreciation of the situation that it somewhat 
disconcerted him. 

So it was arranged that on Monday next Uncle 
was to take us to Winfield and enter us as pupils at 
Mt. Jericho. 

Uncle sent us to bed early, as he wanted the 
house perfectly quiet. 

Before we began to undress Nan came in, evi- 
dently much wrought up ; in fact, she had had some- 
thing on her mind all evening. 

“Philip They don,” she began sternly, “positively 
this thing is to stop.” 

“Why, what’s up now, Nan?” we exclaimed. 

“Are you aware, Phil ?” shaking her finger at him, 
“that Aunt Sarah has had to change the tablecloth 
six times since we have been here? Think of it! 
A clean cloth for every meal, because you spill some- 
thing on it every day. It is outrageous !” 

“Aren’t you ashamed, Phil, to be such a baby !” I 
put in. 

“She’ll send you to the kitchen for meals, first 
thing you know,” piped Paul. 

“Don’t you all jump on me at once,” Phil said. “I 
can’t help it.” 

“Well, you just have to help it,” we all chimed. 
“You know what happens when you don’t come up 
to requirements. Well, look out! The next time 
you soil the cloth we’ll do it.” 


Jfour 90ontfts at ©lencatm 43 


“Well, don’t come down on me so suddenly,” he 
whined, still defending himself. “I told you I 
couldn’t help it.” 

“Yes, you can help it, and I won’t have this re- 
flection on Mother,” I said. 

“Well, don’t cut me down to one, Harold. Give 
me three,” he whined. 

“Yes, Harold,” said Nan, relenting, “give him 
three. And, Phil, you must be more careful.” 

“It’s because you are so silly, Phil,” added Paul. 
“Look here. This is not the way to use a spoon,” 
imitating Phil’s flourishes exactly, “but so,” this time 
more on the order of Bessie’s movements. 

“Well, why doesn’t she just wash it out, and use 
the same one over, as Mother does,” Phil kept whin- 
ing. 

“She’s not your mother, boy, to wash after you.” 

“If Mother had paddled you, instead of washing 
out the stains, you would have broken yourself of 
this bad habit tong ago,” I said. “We will give you 
three cloths a week, and if you go over that your 
punishment is sure. It’s got to stop.” 

And Phil knew it had. He had run up on this 
threat before. 

This was the punishment. We called it “Sending 
you to Coventry.” It meant that the one in disgrace 
was not to be allowed to associate with the other 
three until he wrote a note promising to make amends 
for his faults, and to try to do better. 

We had all been there, at different periods, and it 
was something of a dose. 

So Nan, feeling that she had saved Mother’s repu- 
tation, retired to her room. 

No one went into Winfield to church next day, as 
the weather was still unsettled, and Aunt Sarah was 
feeling pretty weak and badly after her sick day. 

Uncle was glad to stay at home with her. 


44 JFour 0@ont&sJ at <S5Iencatot 


We managed to put in a very quiet day, so full of 
interest were we at this entirely new experience that 
had come to us. 

We could talk of nothing else. 


CHAPTER V. 


MT. JERICHO. 

We were up and dressed early Monday morning. 
It was arranged that Daddy Stephen should serve us 
breakfast, for we had such a drive before us we 
would be gone long before Aunt Sarah came out of 
her room. 

But this morning Uncle was with us, as he was 
going to enter us himself. 

Our tongues flew so fast we could hardly eat. A 
lunch was put up for us. The old-time carryall was 
brought out and brushed up, old Jerry harnessed, 
and then we started. The morning was fine, and as 
we rolled along Uncle kept us amused by telling us 
of the days when Father and himself went to this 
same school. We got so wrought up we forgot to be 
shy when we drove up and were eyed by over one 
hundred children. 

Well, Mr. Marks graded us low, greatly to our 
joy, for we were sent there to kill time, rather than 
for any improvement expected or desired. 

Uncle told us where to buy our books, bags and 
other accessories, and where to find the horse and 
carryall. 

We knew absolutely nothing about children. 
Father and Mother had friends that visited us occa- 
sionally, but if they had children they did not bring 
them. 

The boys surrounded us at recess, sounding us, I 

45 


46 jFout Sgtontfjs at ©lencatnt 


suppose. Many were the questions asked. Perhaps 
we stood the test very well, for they were friendly 
enough. 

On the whole, we were very much pleased. 

After school we walked to Dr. Springs’ drug store, 
where we found Uncle waiting for us. He bought 
all that was required for us, and then we set off 
home, giving him on the way our impressions of the 
school and teachers. 

There is an old town clock in Winfield. You pass 
it just as you turn out of Main Street. Uncle said 
he would take us up to the little piazza, away at the 
top, some day. The view up there is fine, he says. 

Just beside the clock is the jail, and there were 
prisoners looking out between the iron bars in the 
windows on the third story. 

It was dreadful! Nan was so sorry for them 
Uncle wasn’t, though. 

Opposite the jail is the Court House, where these 
prisoners are tried. 

While we were in Dr. Springs’ store a man came 
on the piazza of the Court House and called in a loud 
voice, “Oyez! Oyez! George Washington Anderson, 
come into court. George Washington Anderson, 
come into court.” 

Uncle said a case was being tried — it was court 
week — and this witness was wanted. 

We had never thought much about courts and pris- 
oners and jails on the plantation, and we were very 
curious. 

Uncle answered all of our questions, and we got a 
new view into life. 

It was late in the afternoon when we got home. 

The plan was that we should drive ourselves to 
school, and stop at Mrs. Foster’s, drive into her lane, 
and leave our carryall in her carriage house, and turn 
old Jerry loose in the lot. 


jFout egDontfcs at ©lencattn 4 7 


Mrs. Foster was Aunt Sarah’s and Uncle’s friend. 
She lives in a fine house, almost on the outskirts of 
the town. Her garden is one of the prettiest things 
in Winfield. 

This would leave us a walk of almost a mile each 
way. 

“Uncle has done this in malice, just to tire us down, 
so that we won’t have spirit enough to be noisy,” 
growled Phil. 

He alone did not feel particularly hilarious over 
this school business. 

Father and Cousin John say that he is the brightest 
of us all, but he does not like to apply himself, and 
abhors confinement. 

Ha ! Ha ! It would take more than two miles to 
wear out the little Theydons. 

The plan worked beautifully all week. We saw 
Aunt Sarah only late in the afternoon, when she 
usually came out on the front piazza and with Uncle 
James waited for dinner. 

We were about ready then to be quiet. 

We liked the boys in our room, and Nan was en- 
thusiastic over some of the girls in hers. Paul, alone, 
had complaints to make. 

There was a Ritchie Claiborne in his class that ab- 
solutely tormented him all week. 

He soon found out that Paul was from the coun- 
try, and made him the butt of all his jokes, to which 
the little fellow submitted with such docility he was 
put down as a coward. Paul is really a very jolly, 
good-natured little fellow, and he did not quite un- 
derstand teasing of the sort that Ritchie tried. 

As I said before, we none of us knew the ways of 
boys, Paul least of all. 

He was nine years old, and in some respects wise 
for his years, and in others almost a baby. 

Well, Friday of this very first week, as bad luck 


48 JFour #ottt {)0 at <5Iencattn 


would have it, Dick, one of Uncle’s hands, came in 
with the wagon for groceries just as we were driv- 
ing out of Mrs. Foster’s lane. 

“Git out, Paul. Git out, an’ wait fer me. I ain’t 
goin’ to be gone long. You come go back wid me,” 
he shouted. 

Nothing loth, Paul got out, and so we left him. 

About an hour later he came from the back yard, 
through the side piazza, round to the front, where 
we were all sitting, Aunt Sarah, Uncle James and 
ourselves. 

He was holding a handkerchief to his eye, and was 
evidently much disturbed. 

“What is the matter, Paul ?” Nan asked. 

He was crying, but we heard through the sobs, 
“Ritchie hit me.” 

“Where did you see Ritchie?” I asked. 

“Hit you with a rock?” asked Uncle. 

“No, with a walking cane.” 

“What made him?” I asked. 

“Tell us how it happened,” said Nan. 

So we got out of him, between his sobs and infuri- 
ated grinding of his teeth, that after we left, Mrs. 
Foster, who was walking in her garden and had heard 
Dick call to him, asked him, while he was waiting, 
if he would mind taking a pair of shoes to the shoe- 
maker for her, two squares down the street. 

Of course he made no objection, and her maid 
brought them to him wrapped in paper. 

He was to tell the shoemaker to remove the heels, 
and just to leave them there with him. 

At the very next house there was a children’s party 
going on, and whom should he meet but Ritchie, in 
his fine clothes, walking cane and all, going to it. 

“He came swaggering up to me,” Paul told, “and 
said, ‘Where you going, Paul Theydon ?’ 

“And I told him, ‘Up town, for Mrs. Foster.’ 


jfout 00ontf)S at ©Iencatrn 49 


“Then he said, ‘Open that bundle, and let me see 
what’s inside,’ and I opened it. 

“And then he looked at me and just whooped and 
said, ‘Paul Theydon, you ought to be knocked over 
for being such a fool as to show me those shoes.’ 
Then I got mad, and I said, ‘Well, knock me over, 
then. I dare you to do it.’ 

“Then he laughed again, and said he could knock 
me down with his little finger, and he was going to 
do it, too. 

“Then he began to take off his coat to fight me, 
but he remembered he had on his best clothes, lace 
all down the front of his blouse, just like a girl’s, 
and he put it back on and snapped his fingers right 
in my face, and said, ‘When I fights, I fights boys, 
not little cowardly fools, like you.’ 

“Then I told him I dared him to strike me; that 
he was the coward, because he wouldn’t take my 
dare. 

“ ‘You take that for your impudence,’ he said, and 
he cut me right across my face with his cane. 

“It hurt so I put my hand up to my face, and when 
I turned round he was jeering me from the piazza. 

“And I’m going to beat him on Monday,” Paul 
wailed, shutting up the other eye and crying in wrath 
as well as pain and with his clenched fists pounding 
the air. 

“I’m going to beat him Monday, if he kills me.” 

“I would,” said Uncle hotly, “and I’ll give you fifty 
cents if you do.” 

“O, Col. Theydon! What morals!” laughingly 
protested Aunt Sarah. 

“Yes, Sarah, I would beat him. I would,” Uncle 
assured her, “and I will give him fifty cents if he 
beats him — but that eye needs attention. What have 
we, Sarah, to put on it ?” 

“Witch hazel,” she said; “in the medicine chest.” 


so jFout 90ont!)0 at ©lencairtt 


So Uncle went off to get it and returned with the 
bottle and two of his handkerchiefs. 

But Uncle was not meant for a doctor or a nurse. 
His touch is not gentle. Paul winced under his vig- 
orous splashes of “witch,” and at last Aunt Sarah so 
far forgot her dignity as to take it from him and to 
proceed to bathe his eye and to bandage it herself. 

When she was through Paul lifted his head and 
opened his other eye to look up at her while he 
thanked her for her kindness — and Aunt Sarah 
looked so queer. 

She slipped her hand under his chin quickly, and 
gazed steadily at him, while her eyes filled with tears. 

Uncle was seated near, smoking, and he said to her, 
“Ah, you notice it, too! I have, from the first.” 

We thought it so strange. The next day we looked 
Paul over thoroughly, even took the magnifying 
glass, to see if there could be an incipient cataract, or 
something of that kind, they saw. But we could dis- 
cover nothing. 

We could scarcely wait till Monday, we were so 
wrought up over the coming combat. 

Paul was simply furious whenever he thought of 
Ritchie. 

We were not sure of the outcome of this battle, 
but we knew Paul was remarkably strong for so 
slight a boy and as active as a wild cat. 

On Monday, all during school hours, he was very 
quiet, but evidently had no notion of backing out. 

As for Claiborne, he apparently had forgotten all 
about the occurrence of the afternoon of the party. 

But when school was out, Paul ran up to Ritchie 
and told him he wanted to get square with him, so 
to come behind the college and have it out. 

“All right,” laughed Ritchie, confidently. “Boys, 
come and see me lick Paul They don within an inch 
of his life,” 


JFour £@onti)0 at ©lettcattn 51 


“A fight ! A fight !” shouted the boys. 

“What’s it all about?” asked one. 

“Ritchie is lots bigger than you, Paul. He’ll break 
your head, sure,” said another. 

And with many other such reassuring remarks the 
boys followed Paul to an open spot shielded by low 
bushes and buildings from the college. 

Ritchie’s contemptuous, taunting manner was in- 
censing Paul greatly, as well as the boy’s doubts of 
his ability to cope with his antagonist. 

Ritchie threw his school bag on the ground with a 
resounding thud — then they grappled each other and 
the contest began. 

It was almost impossible to throw Paul, on ac- 
count of his agility, while Ritchie was like a young 
sapling growing out of the ground, such sturdy legs 
did he possess. 

They struggled and swayed, panted and puffed, 
but neither got any decided advantage over the other. 

From the onset the tone of the boys changed. It 
was “Hurrah for Theydon!” “Who would have 
thought it!” “Go for him, Theydon!” “Well done, 
Paul !” and the like, for Ritchie was something of a 
bully, and all boys enjoy seeing his kind get the 
worst of it. 

Blows were falling fast and furious, when a well 
directed thrust from Paul brought blood from 
Ritchie’s nose and tears from his eyes. 

He burst into a rage of weeping, roused by the 
boys’ shouts of derision, and blindly groped about 
for a brick bat, which he flung at Paul, then hurled 
others at the group of boys, until the single fight 
seemed in a fair way to become a general row. . 

“Look out, Claiborne, who you are hitting,” 
shouted one in the crowd. 

“We ain’t done anything to you, Claiborne,” from 
another. 


52 JFfitit Qgontfrg at (glencaitn 

“I don’t care who I hit. I’ll kill some of you if 
you don’t let me alone !” yelled Ritchie. 

“Ha! ha! ha!” from a chorus of boys, dancing in 
excitement. 

Brick bats flew thicker than ever and ugly words, 
too, and a grand hubbub we made, when some one 
gave the warning, “Here comes Mr. Marks.” 

We youngsters picked up books, hats and coats 
and scattered like leaves before a November blast. 

We found Uncle on the piazza smoking, eager for 
the news. 

“Well,” he asked, as we ran around the corner, 
“who whipped?” 

“Paul! Paul!” we shouted. 

“Why, I don’t know, Uncle,” said Paul. “I made 
Ritchie’s nose bleed, and the boys laughed at him for 
crying, and that made him so mad he stopped fight- 
ing me to throw stones at them. Then Mr. Marks 
found out that we were fighting, and when we saw 
him coming we all ran away. I got even with him, 
though — that was all I wanted. No, Uncle, I don’t 
want the fifty cents,” for Uncle was feeling in his 
pockets for it. 

“No, don’t take it,” said Aunt Sarah. “I don’t 
like the idea of your paying him for coming out the 
victor in a fight, Jim. You are nothing but a boy 
yourself,” she laughed, looking at him, though, as if 
she thought him a very nice boy. 

“Yes, ma’am,” Uncle said, reaching for his pipe 
and beginning to smoke. 

“Give it to him for anything else, but not for fight- 
ing.” 

“I thought you told us, Uncle, you had Aunt Sarah 
well in hand,” remarked Phil. 

“What’s that?” asked Aunt Sarah. 

“Now you tell her what brought forth that state- 
ment,” said Uncle, 


iFour 0@ont{)S at ©lencatrn S3 


“No! No! No!” we said, turning very red. 

“We only said that to get Bessie to go to Atlanta 
with Tom and Margaret,” I said. 

“They said you were a Yankee, Aunt Sarah, and 
that you would steal things from people, and that 
you would take my doll from me, and Uncle said he 
could manage you, I needn’t be afraid to come,” 
piped Miss Bessie, thankful for revenge. 

Aunt Sarah did not know whether to be provoked 
or to laugh. 

“Did they really think ” she began. 

“No, no, Aunt Sarah; we were only teasing Bes- 
sie,” we made haste to assure her, while Uncle 
roared, and then she laughed, too, but her face 
flushed. 


CHAPTER VI. 


PHIL GOES TO COVENTRY. 

On Tuesday, the next day, Phil had become so far 
accustomed to the novelty of school as to begin to 
annoy Mr. Marks as he did Cousin John. 

He had been very full of himself all morning. 

At his best, he had never been much at Math. 
Father and Cousin John think he is too restless to 
concentrate his thoughts. 

But there is one thing that he can do pretty well. 
He can draw the funniest pictures of people and ani- 
mals. 

Well, Mr. Marks sent him this morning to the 
board to work out an example. He stood so as to 
conceal one part of the board from Mr. Marks. Ev- 
ery few minutes, in this space, he would, with the 
quickest motion of his hand, make a line, then go on 
with his example, then dash another line or two, and 
in a few minutes, down in the space, grew a pig 
standing up teaching little pigs, and the pig certainly 
resembled Mr. Marks. 

It was as funny as could be, and so quickly done; 
but the example was suffering. 

Though he concealed the picture, he could not hide 
the children’s faces. 

Deeper interest than an example in percentage is 
wont to bring forth sat upon their countenances. 

Mr. Marks moved his position to see what was 

54 


JFour ffiontfrg at <glcn caicn ss 

amusing his class, and, finding out, administered a 
wrathy lecture. 

But Phil is at times incorrigible. The very next 
day he tried the same performance again, only this 
time it was a rooster and chickens. 

Mr. Marks was mad, I tell you. Phil had paid so 
little attention to the lesson he was completely at 
sea. 

But Mr. Marks controlled his temper, and pa- 
tiently went slowly and clearly over each detail three 
times. 

Phil was standing, apparently listening to him, 
but his hand was drawing imaginary pictures in the 
air. 

“Now do you understand?” asked Mr. Marks. 

“I think I do,” Phil answered. 

Then Mr. Marks gave eight examples under the 
rule he had been explaining, and, knowing perfectly 
well from Phil’s expression that he hadn’t taken in 
one word he had been saying, lost his temper again 
and assured him that if he failed the next day he 
certainly would give him a taste of his hickory. 

Phil knew he would do it, too, and was at last im- 
pressed — but not for long. 

When school was out we found there was the 
blackest cloud gathering in the west. 

Long before we reached Mrs. Foster’s house the 
lightning began to flash and deafening peals of thun- 
der to roll and crash. Then came the wind, blowing 
furiously. 

We ran as fast as we could. 

Mrs. Foster’s maid was on the lookout for us, to 
call us into the house. 

We were glad to go in, for a wild storm was upon 
us, and Nan and Phil were so afraid of lightning. 

She took us to the room where Mrs. Foster was 


56 jFout Q^ontSjsi at <g>lemaiot 

sitting. She is a very nice old lady, and so dear and 
good. 

She amused us during the storm by telling us 
about some very religious children she had known, 
who grew up to be ministers of the gospel ; and 
how much good they did, and how they turned bad 
boys’ hearts to Christ. 

Then she said she hoped we were good children 
and didn’t neglect our prayers. 

We liked to talk about prayers, while the house was 
trembling and the trees lashing their branches to- 
gether, and the lightning blinding us and the thun- 
der deafening us. 

We had a very good talk. 

Then she sent her maid for cake. 

She told us she remembered Father when he was 
a boy; that he was a great friend of her boys and 
that he and Uncle were constantly at her house in 
those days. 

When the storm was over and we were preparing 
to go home, she gave us “for keeps” each a book. 

To me she gave “Settlers in Canada,” to Phil “Ed- 
gar Clifton’s School Days,” to Nan “Lilian’s Golden 
Hours,” and to Paul “The American Boy’s Book of 
Sports.” 

We were delighted with our presents. Mrs. Fos- 
ter told us that they had belonged to her children, 
now in heaven, and whenever we saw the books we 
must think of what she had told us about saying our 
prayers. 

Uncle was that glad to see us safe and sound he 
almost kissed us. It was all Aunt Sarah could do to 
keep him from setting out after us in all that storm. 

It was almost dinner time when we reached home. 
The bell rang before we quite finished brushing up. 

It was still raining, so the lamps were lighted early, 
and we were soon absorbed in our new books and 


jFout a&ont&s at ©Iencafttt 57 


read till Uncle sent us off to bed. We got them out 
again next morning as soon as it was light enough 
to read. In consequence we were not ready for 
school until twenty minutes of nine. 

We were just getting into the carriage when Phil 
exclaimed, his eyes nearly popping out of his head, 
“O, Goody ! Those examples !” 

“You’re in for it now, my brother,” I laughed un- 
sympathetically. 

“I can’t go to school ! Where’s Uncle ?” 

“Gone to town.” 

Aunt Sarah was still in her room, and, anyway 
Phil was afraid to ask her for an excuse, so we sent 
him off to put on extra clothing. Nan ran off, too. 

When we did start we had only ten minutes, and 
it is a good thing Uncle was where he could not see 
how we drove old Jerry over those country roads. 

Of course we were late. It was after nine when 
we left Mrs. Foster’s house. 

While walking along, I asked Phil about something 
that had happened in the school the day before. Nan 
answered, while Phil didn’t seem to know what I 
was talking about. 

As we drew near the college, Phil got very ner- 
vous, and declared he could not go in, while Nan 
behaved as I had never seen her before. 

Such walking! switching her skirts around in a 
way I didn’t like at all. 

Then Paul screamed, “Harold, look here! Nan 
and Phil have changed clothes.” 

And sure enough they had. 

“My goodness !” I said, “you all had better go right 
back home.” 

“Too late, now,” said Phil, who was in a perfect 
gale, while Nan was shrinking into herself. 

He was right. It was too late, for Mr. Marks was 
standing in the door and had seen us. 


58 jfottr S&ontbs at (Slenc aint 

So Nan followed me into Mr. Marks’ room, while 
Phil and Paul went to their respective grades. 

Nan sat perfectly still at Phil’s desk, and as the 
recitations went on I began to think the change would 
pass unnoticed, for the twins were as like as two 
peas. 

Neither of us left the room at recess. 

When the hour for arithmetic came, and with it 
the girls from their room, then my heart sank. Nan 
left her desk and took Phil’s seat in the class, and he 
hers. 

But, Good Mercy ! Phil ! He had come flouncing 
into the room in a disgraceful manner. He punched 
one boy on the sly, pulled the hair of another, and 
tried to kiss still another on his way to the recitation 
bench, bringing grins to all who saw it. 

One whispered, and I heard him, “Nan Theydon is 
getting fresh.” 

Nan, in vain, shook her head at Phil. He sat hor- 
ribly ; he lounged and crossed his knees. He giggled. 
He wasn’t still one minute, and he was attracting ev- 
erybody’s attention and causing Mr. Marks to be re- 
proving him continually. 

Poor Nan’s cheeks were crimson as she watched 
his antics. 

Mr. Marks called on Phil Theydon to go to the 
board, and poor, embarrassed Nan moved forward. 

I saw directly that Phil’s behavior had completelv 
scattered her wits. I doubt if the poor child could 
collect her thoughts sufficiently to remember under 
what rule the class was working. 

She utterly failed, but I didn’t realize until it was 
too late that Mr. Marks had taken a stout hickory 
rod and was using it in wrath upon her. 

I started up in dismay, crying, “O, don’t do that, 
Mr. Marks,” while Phil electrified the school by 
shouting, “Stop hitting my sister !” 


JTour gjontftg at (Blettcaim s9 

Nan was writhing in agony. It was the very first 
time in her life that she had been punished in that 
way. 

< Mr. Marks sent Phil out of the room and Nan to 
his desk, where she stayed crying the rest of the day. 

I don’t think Mr. Marks thought much of the 
Theydon children. He looked very curiously at Nan 
every now and then, and so did the boys ; but I fas- 
tened my thoughts on my book, for I didn’t want to 
catch the eye of any of them. 

Four angry, weeping children rushed tempestu- 
ously around the corner of the house and up the 
steps, straight to the end of the piazza where Uncle 
and Aunt Sarah were usually found at this hour en- 
joying these last warm afternoons of summer. 

Nan’s sobs broke out afresh as she threw herself 
into Uncle’s arms and hid her head on his shoulder. 

Paul and I were explaining in indignant tones that 
Nan had been whipped at school, while Phil, a cari- 
cature indeed, with his skirts all awry, and in his ex- 
citement waving his hand in the air to attract atten- 
tion, hastened to apologize by protesting, “I know it 
was wrong, Uncle. I’m just as sorry as I can be, and 
just as ashamed. I didn’t have time to think, 
and ” 

“For mercy’s sake, what is all this?” said poor 
Uncle, laying aside his beloved pipe and looking at 
us in amazement, while even Aunt Sarah looked as- 
tonished. “What has happened, Nan? You have 
had a whipping at school? Why, what have you 
been doing, child?” 

He took hold of Phil. 

“That’s not Nan,” said Paul. “Here’s Nan. Poor 
little Nan,” he said, stroking her down in his sym- 
pathy. He adores his sister, and is always distressed 


6o jfout a^ontlw at <g>Ieticairn 

if she is in trouble. “She dressed up in Phil’s clothes 
this morning.” 

“Who? Nan?” exclaimed Uncle. 

“Yes, to save Phil from the beating Mr. Marks 
said ” 

“And this is Nan, dressed as a boy? And she’s 
been to school in these clothes? Here, wait — don’t 
all talk at once. Explain what this means. Now, 
let Harold tell me.” 

So I told him, and I didn’t spare Phil either, for 
I was mad with him. 

“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself! You coward!” 
exclaimed Uncle, with blazing eyes. 

“Yes, I am,” sobbed Phil. “I am ashamed, Uncle, 
but I thought Nan knew how to work the examples. 
I didn’t once think she would get whipped. She al- 
ways could work ” 

“And she could to-day,” I interrupted, “if you had 
only behaved yourself. You confused her. She knew 
no girl ought to act as you were doing.” 

Uncle looked so disgusted with Phil I began to feel 
a little sorry for him. 

He had been quieting Nan by gently pressing her 
to him and kissing the top of her head, and her sobs 
gradually grew more subdued. 

“I don’t ever want to go into that school room 
again,” said Paul. 

“I don’t either,” I emphatically agreed. 

“Nor I,” said Phil. 

“I never can go again,” said Nan, and she began 
to sob once more. 

“I don’t know that I am particularly anxious for 
you to go back myself,” said Uncle, “but I declare I 
don’t know what to do with you children !” 

And his tone was so concerned, and he looked so 
helpless, we were real sorry we were so bad. 

Aunt Sarah suddenly leaned back in her rocking 


jFour s@ont&s at ©lettcatttt 61 


chair and held the corners of her handkerchief out 
before her face to hide it. 

Uncle looked round at her and caught her. 

“Come from behind that handkerchief, Miss Sarah. 
I know what you are laughing at. It’s the truth, 
though; I really don’t know what to do with them.” 

“Why, I think you are managing beautifully. Col. 
Theydon. I have never admired you more than I 
have these two past weeks,” said Aunt Sarah. 

Uncle looked at her as if he didn’t quite know 
whether she was guying him or not ; all the same, he 
laughingly made her a courteous salute, which would 
do either way. 

“Now go and make yourselves decent for dinner,” 
he said. 

So we all ran up stairs, poor Nan staggering across 
the piazza. 

When we came down to dinner we had to leave 
her. She had gone regularly to bed with a bad head- 
ache. 

It was a very sorrowful meal for us. Uncle and 
Aunt Sarah were talking politics over our heads, 
and as we knew we should not chatter when grown 
people were conversing we sat absorbed in our own 
thoughts. 

After dinner Phil went to sit by Nan, and Paul 
and I strolled out on the lawn. 

“Harold,” said Paul, most earnestly, “do you think 
Phil has good sense ?” 

“Yes,” I laughed, “he has all the sense he needs. 
What’s the matter with Phil is that he is just dying 
for a whipping.” 

“If you could have seen him,” continued Paul. “It 
was all I could do to keep from taking my geography 
and bamming it over his head. So silly.” 

“Well, never mind. He goes into Coventry,” I 
said. 


62 jFout S@ontl)0 at <E>lencatnt 


“He knows it, too/’ laughed Paul. “That’s why he 
has gone upstairs.” 

Nan did not come down to tea either. 

After tea Uncle, instead of going out on the piazza, 
as usual, kept walking about the dining room, just as 
restless as he could be. He would come and look 
over the tea table as if he wanted something, then be- 
gin to walk again. I saw Aunt Sarah laughing to 
herself. 

Presently she went into the pantry and returned in 
a few minutes bringing a little tray, with a cup of 
tea with some toast and nice wafers upon it. 

As soon as Uncle saw the tray his face brightened, 
and he just hugged her, saying, “Yes, that’s it. You 
are a perfect darling, Sarah.” 

Aunt Sarah laughed at him and said, “Don’t make 
me spill the tea, Col. Theydon.” 

Then she went upstairs to Nan. 

Phil was there, sitting quietly by her bedside. His 
penitence was too late. 

Nan had a dreadful headache, and was still crying. 

Aunt Sarah put the tray down and knelt by Nan, 
petting and comforting her. 

After a while her tears stopped flowing. 

Then Aunt Sarah brought a basin of cool water 
and gently bathed the poor child’s smarting eyes and 
flushed face. Then she brushed the tangles out of 
her curls and put her arms around her and kissed her 
just as Mother would have done. 

Aunt Sarah stood very near to Mother in Nan’s 
heart after this night. 

After she had eaten her supper she felt much bet- 
ter. 

Then Aunt Sarah sent Phil away and sat by her, 
talking till she fell asleep. 

Phil did not come down stairs, though. He knew 
better. When we went to bed we found him there 


JFout 00ontl)0 at ©lencaitn 63 

already, and if he was not fast asleep, he was feign- 
ing to be. 

Next day Uncle told us we need not go back to 
school, unless we got rowdy again. 

Nan was feeling the effects of yesterday’s excite- 
ment, and Aunt Sarah told her she had better keep 
quiet, so she played dolls with Bessie. 

Phil was proud and would play with neither, but 
pretended he was very much interested in his new 
book. We noticed, though, that the pages did not 
turn very fast. 

Paul and I were lonely, but we meant old Phil to 
feel that he was in disgrace, and the way is, when 
one of us is in Coventry, that he has to stay there till 
he writes a note to say that he is sorry and has had 
enough, then we let him come back. 

Leaving Phil with his book, we went to walk. 
There is enough at Glencairn to amuse you. We 
went with Daddy Ben to see the poultry fed. Uncle 
has some fine birds. He is getting them ready for 
the State Fair. 

Daddy Ben told us the names of the different 
breeds and showed the points of each. He seemed 
as much interested as if he owned them. He keeps 
the yards and houses clean, feeds them and attends 
to them generally. He is an old, lame negro, so this 
work suits him exactly. 

There were some young puppies to claim our at- 
tention next; and from there we went to the gin 
house, where they were ginning cotton with an en- 
gine instead of in the old way. 

They told us to get out, for fear we might get hurt 
in the machinery. So we looked from the outside 
with great interest. 

From there we wandered back through the gardens 
and orchard. Here we found Aunt Sarah and the 
girls. She had on a big sun hat and long gloves, and 


64 iFour e©ont &0 at <S5lencaint 


was as busy among her flowers and plants as she 
could be. 

There is a large hot house in the garden with many 
a queer and beautiful flower in it that I never had 
seen before. 

Aunt Sarah told us, if we wanted to, we might 
gather some of the ripe apples in the orchard and 
bring them in for lunch. 

Ready to obey her slightest behest, we ran to the 
house for a basket and soon filled it. 

At lunch Phil’s sprightly gayety did not in the 
least deceive us. He had been bored to death, but 
still pride was conquering him. He left us as soon 
as the meal was over, going to the branch with a vig- 
orous swing, as if he had great projects afoot. 

We did not follow him, though we wanted to. 

Going to church on Sunday was a sore trial to 
Nan, but Uncle and Aunt Sarah seemed to have for- 
gotten all about the escapade. Not so our compan- 
ions. We saw from their looks of amusement that 
they were thinking how Nan They don got a whip- 
ping that was meant for old Phil. 

Nan sat close to Uncle, who somewhat shielded her 
by putting his arm on the back of the pew behind her. 
She did not lift her eyes from her prayer book dur- 
ing the whole service. 

On Monday Phil was still too proud to write the 
note, so we left him to his own devices, and as Uncle 
had charged us not to disturb Aunt Sarah we three 
decided to go hunting. 

We put on our leggings, hunting belts and caps. 
Paul and I each had a gun, and Nan the lunch, put 
up in one of the discarded book bags, strapped on her 
back, knapsack fashion. 

Phil was nowhere to be seen when we left. 

We saluted Aunt Sarah as we crossed the lawn. 
She smiled and waved her hand at us. 


jFout 90oml)S at ©lettcatcn 65 


The day was delightful in the woods, and we en- 
joyed ourselves so much. We had two of Uncle’s 
bird dogs with us, and it was fun to see our strings 
of partridges grow longer and heavier. 

We hoped Aunt Sarah and Uncle would welcome 
us when they saw us coming home. 

As usual, they were on the piazza. 

“See what we have brought!” we called when we 
reached the piazza. 

“Hurrah for our Nimrods !” said Uncle enthusias- 
tically. 

“Uncle, they are just thick in your woods,” said 
Nan. 

“I know it. I haven’t had much time for hunting 
lately. I am glad you are such sportsmen, for we are 
fond of quail on toast out here. Run and give them 
to Suckey.” 

Phil went upstairs, and there we found him, 
stretched out on his bed with his head under his pil- 
low; whether crying or sulking I don’t know — sulk- 
ing, I guess, for he looked pretty glum both at dinner 
and tea. 

Nan was awfully sorry for him, and, I believe, 
managed to have a little talk with him. Anyway, by 
next morning, just as we were setting out for another 
day in the woods, she came running, waving the note 
and announcing, “He has had enough. He is coming, 
too.” 

And glad we were to see him coming toward us, 
with gun, belt, leggings, cap and all, for Phil is great 
fun. 


CHAPTER VII. 


WE BECOME HOUSE HOLDERS. 

The weather favored us for a week, and we sup- 
plied Aunt Sarah with all the partridges she could 
use. and besides had jolly, free good times ourselves, 
wandering around Uncle’s beautiful plantation. 

But alas ! the wind changed and began to blow 
from the east; the clouds gathered and the woods 
thickened with mist. 

We were worried, for we were honestly afraid of 
ourselves if we should be shut up long. But Paul 
had an inspiration. On coming back from the woods, 
we once took the path that skirts the gardens. These 
gardens are separated from the woods by a long lane 
with high privet hedges on either side. 

At the end of the lane, on the outskirts of the 
woods, is an old, dilapidated building that looks as 
if it was past use. It struck Paul that, if Uncle 
would allow us, we might play out there, and be too 
far from the house to annoy Aunt Sarah with our 
noise. 

The day was not inviting for a stroll, so we hunted 
up Uncle to make our request. 

He went with us to see what condition it was in. 

He said he really did not know for what purpose 
it had been built, but his mother had used it for a 
cotton house. He had intended to pull it down, but 
somehow he had forgotten all about its being there. 

66 


jFour 00o»tJ)S at ©lencatrn 67 


It was a long, narrow, low-ceiled room. 

“It looks like a bowling alley,” said Phil. 

“We will make it one,” said Uncle. “It will be a 
splendid play room for you. It needs a new sill, some 
shingles and window sashes. I’ll send a carpenter 
out, right away, as soon as I get to town, and have 
him fix it for you to-day.” 

Sure enough, during the morning, there came the 
man with his tools, and began to work on it at once. 
He put it in good order and gave us a lock and key, 
too. 

The next day Uncle had Dick whitewash it and 
scour the floor and windows clean. 

It had been drizzling all day, but by next morning 
there was a regular downpour, and we had to put on 
our raincoats to go over there. 

We felt almost like grownups, with our own house, 
with its lock and key. 

There were three large windows, all on the south 
side, looking into the woods. These gave us plenty 
of light, and on bright, cold days plenty of sunshine. 

Two or three days after we had possession of it 
Uncle brought back from town a bowling outfit. The 
next day he had the carpenter to come back and fix 
it up complete. 

We were just as happy as we could be. Even the 
rolling and hitting of the balls didn’t reach Aunt 
Sarah’s ears, and for a week we enjoyed ourselves to 
the utmost. 

Indeed, we didn’t see anything of Aunt Sarah that 
week, except at meals and after tea, in the sitting 
room; so we didn’t bother her one bit. 

Ike, a little colored boy that waited in the house, 
found our quarters very fascinating. He was the 
one that showed us around the day we came. Really 
we did not object to him, but Aunt Sarah did not 
want us to play with him. I suppose she was preju- 


68 jFour QfJontfrs at ©Icncafm 


diced because she was from the north. So we didn’t 
let him in very often. 

But one day, instead of going- to, school, we found 
him crouching in the privet lane. 

“What are you doing, Ike ?” I asked. 

“La ! Harold. Don’t holler so loud ! Mammy’ll 
hear you. An’ ef she do, she’ll skin me ef she sees 
me here.” 

So we went to see what he was doing. 

“I ain’t goin’ to school. I wants to play in you- 
all’s house. I don l’arn nuttin’ no way. Mammy jus’ 
sen’ me kase all de oders go.” 

So, feeling rather tender on the school question, we 
admitted him, and he rewarded us by relating in the 
most delightful manner all of the “Brer Rabbit” 
stories he knew. 

Letters had come again from Father and Mother. 
Father was improving right along, and Mother was 
having such a nice time. 

Bessie was so homesick after hearing the letters 
read that we were forced to amuse her to keep her 
from crying. 

I took her on my back and trotted her up and down 
the hall, the others following on tiptoe. 

Then we played a noiseless game of “Toucher,” 
and played out there till the tea bell rang. 

When we were seated, Uncle said, “You have had 
a splendid romp, haven’t you?” 

“Did we disturb you, Uncle?” 

“Not at all. I love to hear your merry laughter.” 
Then he sighed, and for a few minutes seemed to 
be thinking of something that made him very sad. 

But after a while he roused, and asked Aunt Sarah 
if she had read a certain article in the Courier that 
morning. 

She had read it, and then they began to discuss 
politics. 


Jfout Qgont&s at <gleticaitn 69 

Something very exciting was taking place in our 
state this fall. The Democrats were determined to 
put down misrule, to elect their own governor, and 
to restore order. 

Uncle was deeply interested. We had seen him 
several times lately, ride off, in a red shirt, to attend 
meetings of the different clubs, and Aunt Sarah al- 
ways looked, after he left, as if she were worried to 
death. 

Well, so absorbed were they in conversation over 
this piece of news in the day’s paper they forgot our 
existence. 

It seemed to us as if they would sit there forever. 
We ate twice as much as we ought to fill up the time. 
We had all, in turn, asked to be excused, but we were 
not heard in the animated conversation going on. 

Then we sighed heavily. We talked by signs. Paul 
assumed his woe-begone expression, but still that dis- 
cussion went on. 

Then Bessie’s head began to nod and her eyes to 
draw straws, but no one noticed her. Her head be- 
gan to bob up and down, back and forth, and still 
they talked, seeming to be getting more absorbed, if 
anything. 

Paul clasped his hands in dumb entreaty and gave 
us a pantomime show, one minute appealing to Aunt 
Sarah, then to Uncle, in a manner that was perfectly 
irresistible, it was so funny, and though we shook 
with silent laughter till the tea cups rattled, no one 
noticed. There was one amused witness, however, 
besides ourselves — Ike — who, in white apron and 
cap, was being broken in as a waiter. 

He gave audible expression to his mirth, and was 
led to the pantry by his ear, held in the grasp of the 
wrathy Stephen. 

All silently, however, and still the conversation 
went on. 


70 jFout fi@omIjs at <55lencai'rit 


Bessie’s nods now became more emphatic. Occa- 
sionally, as she bowed especially low, her hands 
would fly about, like a baby’s with hiccoughs, and we 
would merrily shake. 

Lucky for us that we had had that romp, or we 
would have followed suit. 

At last, Bessie gave a tremendous lurch backwards 
in her chair, not only throwing out her hands, but 
bringing her feet, with a sounding thud against the 
table, making the dishes rattle loud, and thus broke 
up the political party. 

“Bless these chicks,” said Uncle. “How long have 
we been sitting here?” 

Bessie opened her sleepy eyes, and began to cry. 
Christiana was sent for, and tea was over. 

When we were all sitting round the open fire in the 
sitting room, for it was chilly in the evenings now, 
Uncle asked Nan if she took music lessons. 

Nan told him that Mother had taught her the notes, 
and that she could play a good many exercises. 

“Just one, two, three, four — and one and, two 
and, three and, four and, Uncle,” said Paul, who does 
not think much of Nan’s music. 

“There are so many interruptions,” continued Nan, 
“and the little children take up so much of Mother’s 
time, she can’t be very regular about the lessons ; but 
I practice nearly every day.” 

“Yes,” went on Paul, “but we can sing, Uncle.” 

“You can?” said Uncle. “That’s fine! Let’s have 
a concert. What can you sing ?” 

“Father taught us lots of rounds,” he said. 

“The very same ones your father and I learned 
when we were little chaps at Miss Finney’s school, I 
wager,” laughed Uncle. 

“Scotland’s a Burning,” I said. 

“The Bell Doth Toll,” said Nan. 

“O, yes,” said Uncle. “The very ones, and ‘A 


Jfout e@ont !)0 at ©lencaitn 71 


Glass, a Glass, but not of Sherry/ ‘Here’s a Health 
to All Young Lassies ’ ” 

“Yes,” said Paul, “we know all those, and ‘Over 
Hills and Over Valleys’ is another.” 

“Well, let’s sing them all,” said Uncle. 

And we did, glad to exercise our voices after our 
long silence. 

Uncle clapped and applauded. I don’t know why 
Aunt Sarah did not put her fingers into her ears, but 
she did not. Instead, she sat there smiling as if she 
liked it. 

She looked so pretty. She takes as much pains to 
be becomingly dressed out here, just for Uncle, as if 
she expected a house full of company. Uncle does, 
too, for that matter. He is always spic and span, and 
as immaculate, shall I say, as the little Rodericks. 

Well, we enjoyed the concert immensely, and 
would have liked* to have prolonged our perform- 
ance, had we been asked to do so, but Uncle walked 
over to the piano, opened it, and called Aunt Sarah to 
come and sing. 

Then the concert began in earnest. They sang 
duets and solo after solo. 

We were entranced. We had brought out the par- 
chesi board to play a game, but we stopped so often 
to listen that our interest in it flagged. 

Paul had been complaining all day of being so 
tired, and now he stretched himself upon the hearth 
rug and fell fast asleep. 

They finished up their concert by Uncle singing a 
solo called “My Angel,” and it was perfectly lovely. 
The last verse begins : 

“ ’Tis an angel pure and fair 
That receives my constant care,” 


72 jFout Qiontfjs at ©lencaint 


and ends: 

“Thee I greet with love sincere, 

Thou, to me, art ever dear.” 

When Uncle had sung the last word, he stooped 
and kissed Aunt Sarah on the top of her head; in- 
deed he had been looking at her all the time he was 
singing, as if he meant every word he was saying 
for her. 

It was very late when they closed the piano and 
came back to the fire. 

“You, children, up yet?” said Uncle. “What’s 
this? Paul asleep?” Then, putting him on his feet, 
he said, “Wake up, little man, it’s time to go to bed.” 

So we said “Good night” and went upstairs. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


PAUL. 

To bed we went, but not to sleep. Such a night as 
we spent ! It was cold, very cold for so early in the 
season, and not a blanket nor comfort could we find 
in our room. 

There had been blankets on each bed, and we did 
not find that they had been removed until we put 
the lamp out; then we groped all about the room, 
hunting for them and the matches, but could find 
neither. 

We all got into one bed, trying to keep warm in 
that way. Paul began to fret with a sore throat. 
We couldn’t sleep to save us, till nearly morning. 
We dozed a little then, for we were completely worn 
out. We woke when Christiana came in, bringing 
the fresh water. We asked her for a fire, and her 
reply was that if we wanted a fire we could go down- 
stairs and get the wood and make it ourselves. 

Christiana had not given warning, as she had 
threatened, but she had no love for us. 

“Pm not going to get up till I do get a fire,” said 
Phil, in a temper. “I wonder where all those blank- 
ets are that were on our beds. I am not going to get 
up without a fire.” 

“Then I am afraid that you’ll stay in bed all day,” 
I said. 

It was stinging cold, but I got up and began dress- 

73 


74 JFour #ont{)S at ©lettcafttt 


ing. A tap on the door, and Nan wanted to know 
why we were so quiet. Were we all asleep? 

“O, Nan, come in,” I said. “Just look here. We 
are nearly dead. We have no fire, no blankets nor 
comforts on our beds, and- we hardly slept all night 
long, and Paul is sick.” 

Nan was all sympathy. She told us to go into her 
room, where there was a good fire. Bessie had al- 
ready gone down stairs. 

We ran in there, and hastily dressed, just in time 
for breakfast. 

Paul was so white I wondered that no one noticed 
him. He helped himself to food, but made no at- 
tempt to eat ; in fact, he was shivering so he could 
hardly hold his fork steady. 

Uncle was absorbed in his own afifairs. He was to 
make a speech at a campaign meeting during the 
morning, and was probably thinking about that. 

At last Aunt Sarah saw that he was eating no 
breakfast, and called Uncle’s attention to it, and also 
to the child’s pallor. 

“What’s the matter, son ? Why, aren’t you shiver- 
ing? Come here,” said Uncle. 

Paul came, but hid his face against Uncle’s shoul- 
der to hide his tears. He felt so badly. 

Uncle was very much concerned. He sent Daddy 
Stephen off with a message to Dick, to go at once for 
Dr. Rivers. 

“I have thought for some time,” said Aunt Sarah, 
“that Paul needed a tonic.” 

Paul kept shivering, so Uncle and Daddy Stephen 
drew up the lounge before the fire, and then Uncle 
made him lie down and covered him up comfortablv. 
Nan was so indignant at our having spent such a mis- 
erable night she could not help speaking about those 
blankets. 

“What has become of them?” asked Aunt Sarah. 


JFour at (SMencaint 75 


“No fire, either,” said Nan. 

“Sarah ” began Uncle. Then, remembering 

that he had assumed all management of us, he 
stopped. 

After breakfast Nan heard Aunt Sarah asking 
Christiana about the covering of our beds, and at last 
got from her that she didn’t like to bother over “dem 
boys’ ” beds, any way. She didn’t think boys were 
ever cold, so she had taken off all the blankets and 
comforts and locked them up in the closet. 

This was her way of taking out her spite upon us. 

Nan said Aunt Sarah gave her a sharp reprimand, 
and that covering was brought back, and, what’s 
more, we had a fire every night and morning while 
we were at Glencairn, only Aunt Sarah compromised 
enough with Christiana to let it be Ike’s duty, and not 
hers, to bring up the wood and make the fires. 

In an hour’s time Dr. Rivers came. We liked the 
old gentleman the minute we saw him; he had such 
nice blue eyes. We were all introduced to him as 
“Brother’s children.” He was interested. 

He looked at Paul, then at Paul’s throat. He said 
he was in rather a bad shape, and had a very ugly 
throat. 

He advised Uncle to keep us away from him, for, 
while he did not think it was diphtheria, there were 
so many cases of it in town that it would be prudent 
to quarantine the child. 

He asked for a glass and water, dropped out some- 
thing, and told Paul to drink it. 

Ah ! He didn’t know it took the combined house- 
hold to get medicine down Paul’s throat at home, and 
we looked on curiously. 

Paul’s lips gripped. 

“Take it, son,” said the doctor, kindly. 

A shake of the head was the only reply. 

“Come, Paul,” said Uncle, “be a man. Take it.” 


76 jFour 9§ontj)0 at ©lencatrn 


No answer. 

“But you must take it,” said Uncle. 

“You certainly must,” said the doctor. Paul 
wouldn’t ungrip his mouth even to answer. 

Uncle was getting mad, but he still tried per- 
suasion. 

“I’l give you fifty cents if you’ll take it like a man.” 

Still no answer. 

The men looked at each other, then at the small, 
skinny, little chap in front of them, and appeared to 
be at their wit’s end. 

“We will be obliged to hold you, Paul, and open 
your mouth by force and give you this medicine,” 
said Uncle, real mad now. 

But just then Aunt Sarah came in, and, taking in 
the situation, she quietly took the glass from Dr. 
Rivers, put her hand for a minute on Paul, and 
gently said, “Now, take it,” and Paul opened his 
mouth and gulped it down. 

“Sheer magnetism, Mrs. Theydon. You hypno- 
tized the boy,” laughed the doctor, while Uncle took a 
long breath of relief. 

After the doctor left, it was funny to see Uncle 
preparing to manage. He didn’t know how to set 
about it, any better than we would have done. He 
wanted Aunt Sarah to help him, any one could see 
that, but she was not in the room. 

“Which room shall I put him in, I wonder,” he was 
saying to himself. Then, “Good gracious ! I will be 
obliged to leave him in a few minutes now. What 
shall I do?” His tone was annoyed. 

“I couldn’t help getting sick,” Paul wailed. 

“No, dear child,” said Uncle, getting kind right 
away, “I know that, but I am afraid I was not cut 
out for a nurse, and that you’ll have such a bad time 
of it.” 

Poor little, sick Paul began to cry softly at the 


JFout S@ont&s at ©lettcatrn 77 


thought of the bad time he was going to have at 
Uncle’s hands, and he yearned most pitifully for his 
dear Mother. 

His eyes were getting bright, and his cheeks red, 
as if he had fever. 

Uncle was gazing into the fire, thinking hard, when 
Aunt Sarah came in, and, standing behind his chair, 
with her hands clasped loosely in front of him, she 
asked, “What are your plans for the invalid, Col. 
Theydon ?” 

“Well, I thought, Sarah,” said Uncle, slowly, 
still gazing in the fire, “that I’d put him in the south- 
east chamber upstairs, — that’s well separated from 
the children’s room, — and get Dutchie to come and 
nurse him.” 

“What a nightmare!” ejaculated Aunt Sarah. 

Uncle looked very much disturbed, but said noth- 
ing. 

Presently Aunt Sarah said, “Do you think me 
cruel Jim?” 

Then Uncle took hold of her hands and drew her 
round to his knee, and said, “I have always thought 
you perfection, Mrs. Theydon; but I’m seeing you 
in a new role these days. I didn’t know how far 
your resentment would carry you.” 

“Not to the extent of seeing that poor little sick 
boy left to the tender mercies of Dutchie. I think 
I will have to interfere, Col. Theydon, and take 
charge of your patient myself.” 

“O, Sarah! If you only would! You cau’t 
imagine what a relief it would be to me. I know I’m 
nothing of a nurse.” 

“I don’t know about that,” said Aunt Sarah. I 
have always found you the kindest and best. But let 
me go and arrange for him.” 

“Where are you going to put him ?” 


78 jFour 90ontI)S at ©lencatnt 


“In our dressing room, where we both can attend 
to him.” 

“Yes,” said Uncle, “the very place. O, there is no- 
body like you.” 

Then Aunt Sarah went out, and in a very short 
time Christiana came to tell Uncle to bring Paul. 

If Uncle was grateful, so were we, for now we 
knew he was in safe hands. 

I believe we were beginning to worship Aunt 
Sarah. 

Uncle then went to town to make his speech, and 
I am sure his heart was lighter and more at ease 
than if he had put Paul in the southeast chamber 
with Dutchie watching over him. 

Dutchie is a big, fat, greasy black woman, who 
talks fast in a loud, noisy manner all the time. 

Aunt Sarah stayed with Paul until Dr. Rivers said 
all danger from diphtheria was over. 

But we didn’t see Paul again for a week, for he 
was quite sick. 

When he did get out again, he had great tales to 
tell us of how nice Aunt Sarah had been to him. 

She had played games with him and had read hours 
at a time to amuse him, and had told him stories that 
she had read. He was profoundly impressed with 
Aunt Sarah’s knowledge, and we, with her goodness. 

We knew we were not welcome guests; that she 
had been really angry that morning Uncle had unex- 
pectedly brought us home with him ; yet, whenever 
we got into trouble, she sympathized with us and 
comforted us ; and because she loves Uncle and is so 
sweet and good, she had been just lovely to poor, 
little, sick Paul all this past week. We longed so 
much to do something for her. 

Paul looked a great deal better. Uncle said he 
believed he was going to put on some flesh now ; but 


jFout QgSontfrg at (SHencatttt 79 

we noticed Aunt Sarah so often looking at him 
with such sad eyes. 

Nan got anxious about it, and told us she knew 
Aunt Sarah thought he was going to die. It wor- 
ried her so, she at last took courage to ask her 
about it. 

“Paul?” asked Aunt Sarah in surprise, “why, he 
is all right again, Nan. He hasn’t his strength back 
yet, but he looks much better than when he came.” 

Nan longed to ask her then why did she look at 
him so sadly; but it is not easy to ask Aunt Sarah 
impertinent questions. 


CHAPTER IX. 


MARTHA LANE. 

A few days after Paul got out again Aunt Sarah 
received a letter from her niece informing her that 
she and her sister were coming on a visit soon. 

We learned by listening to the conversation at the 
table that these nieces were young ladies just through 
college ; that their names were Alice and May Faulk- 
ner, daughters of Aunt Sarah’s only sister, and that 
they were frequent visitors at Glencairn. 

Miss Alice was going to be married in February, 
and this was to be her farewell visit to Aunt Sarah 
before that event took place. 

We thought a great deal about these young ladies, 
and were looking forward to the day of their ar- 
rival as eagerly as the grown folks. 

Dr. Rivers came every now and then to see how 
Paul was getting on. 

One cool afternoon, between dinner and tea, we 
were all in the sitting room as comfortable as could 
be. Uncle was reading, Aunt Sarah embroidering, 
Nan and Bessie were in one corner playing dolls — 
Bessie had no end of them by this time — we two 
older boys were reading, as usual, and Paul, still an 
invalid, was snoozing on the davenport near the fire 
among the cushions; when we heard a vehicle drive 
up to the house on the lawn. 

Immediately some one came rushing up the steps 
and threw open the hall door, then a merry voice 
called out, ‘‘Any one at home? ,, 

80 


jFotit 0©oml)sf at ©lettcaint 81 


Before either Aunt Sarah or Uncle could rise or 
answer, there was a tap at the sitting room door, 
which was instantly opened, and in walked a tall, 
slender young lady, whose jaunty hat, set on one 
side, showed beneath pretty, fluffy, light hair, drawn 
back into a shapely knot. 

We thought rightly that it was one of Dr. River’s 
daughters, for he was with her. 

“O, it’s been so long since I have had an oppor- 
tunity to come out here. I’m so glad the boy is sick, 
so Father had to come. I wanted to see you so 
much, to hear about the girls. 

“Father told me you expected them soon/’ she 
said, talking rapidly, in a sprightly manner. 

Aunt Sarah drew her down to a chair beside her. 

“How d’ye do children,” went on the young lady, 
nodding to us. “Are you the sick one?” glancing 
over at Paul. “O, doesn’t he look comfortable this 
cold afternoon. Worried to death?” she inquired of 
Aunt Sarah in an undertone. 

“Remarkably good,” answered Aunt Sarah in the 
same voice. 

“Tell me about Alice, — she’s engaged, Father says.” 

Then she and Aunt Sarah began to discuss Miss 
Alice’s affairs at length. 

Miss Diana, for that was her name, was the mer- 
riest young lady I had ever seen. She was just over- 
flowing with high spirits. She talked so fast I 
couldn’t catch on to half she said, but Uncle did, for 
he kept one ear listening to her, though apparently 
absorbed in the doctor’s political conversation. 

“When the girls come, Dian,” he said, “I prom- 
ise you and Peno another famous hunt.” 

“If we are not all burnt out or murdered by that 
time,” laughed Aunt Sarah. 

Judging from what we could understand when 
politics were under discussion, the grown people were 


82 jFour QgJont&s at (Slettcaint 


awfully apprehensive of something dreadful hap- 
pening at the election next month. 

"I am not the least afraid, Mrs. Theydon. Are 
you?” asked Miss Dian. 

“I will be very glad when the election is over. 
When Col. Theydon doesn’t come home at the usual 
hour, I get very nervous about him, and fancy every- 
thing dreadful that can be imagined.” 

Now I knew why Aunt Sarah kept going to the 
window that looked upon the road so often just about 
dinner time, when Uncle was late. 

Dr. Rivers and Miss Dian would not stay to tea, 
for he said his wife would make herself miserable, 
too, if they were late in returning. 

When we went upstairs Nan stopped long enough 
in our room for the four of us to embrace each 
other and to dance over “Remarkably good.” 

“Good ! Think of our being good and Aunt Sarah 
saying so!” 

It was another week before Paul was well enough 
to stir out again. If the weather had been fine, he 
was not so sick but that he might have gone about 
in the middle of the day; but it was a week of con- 
tinued rain and cold northeast winds. 

Even our play room was cold without the sun 
to warm it. 

We had not long been confined to the house before 
we discovered that the garret had delights. O, the 
rubbish that accumulates in an old house ! This gar- 
ret had stationary ventilators; so I doubt if Aunt 
Sarah paid many visits up there. 

Having been permitted to explore its contents, we 
spent many an hour of that rainy week in the closets 
and old chests of drawers. 

Glencairn had been Grandmother Theydon’s home 
. when she was a girl. It had been in her family for 


jfotit ggontftg at ©Icncaitn 83 

generations. As she was the only child, it became 
her property after her father’s death. 

Grandfather Theydon died when Father and Uncle 
were little boys. 

After his death Grandmother came back to her 
old home to live and leased Theydon Hall until 
Father became of age. 

Uncle says the Glencoes have always had a mania 
for keeping old things ; so that accounts for the curi- 
ous and quaint collections of garments, pictures, fur- 
niture, and I don’t know what all we found up there. 
We were told we could overhaul everything, provided 
we put them all away again. 

We arrayed ourselves in these old-fashioned fin- 
eries of days gone by, and had tableaux and the- 
atricals, we ourselves being the only spectators, bar- 
ring Larry, the big Maltese cat. He always came up 
with us, and, blinking gravely, no doubt wished us 
thousands of miles away, and the stage cleared for 
the antics of the rats and mice, whose scamperings 
in the walls must have tantalized him dreadfully. 

Our stage was a trundle bed, hauled out before a 
large mirror that had a crack in one corner. In this 
mirror we could view the tableaux with great satis- 
faction. 

Phil did all the arranging, for he had a natural 
gift for anything of the kind. 

Then there were piles of magazines and old pa- 
pers. We were every one of us fond of reading, 
with the exception of Paul, who loved to look at 
pictures. 

We would ensconce ourselves in the comfortable, 
faded old chairs, and I would read aloud to them for 
hours. 

I am afraid the stories were not exactly in the 
line Mother and Father would have chosen for us. 


84 JFotit Sjontfrg at (glettcaittt 

Love stories were a new feature in our literature, 
but we found them highly entertaining. 

Altogether, we had a gorgeous week of pleasure, 
and I am sure Uncle Jim and Aunt Sarah were 
amazed that we were able to keep so quiet. Uncle 
was surprised that we did not want to be out at our 
house. 

“Now, that’s just like children,” he said. “A few 
days ago you were crazy over that house, and could 
think of nothing else, and, now that it is yours, you 
don’t care for it in the least.” 

“You are mistaken, Uncle. We do care, but Paul 
wasn’t strong enough to play at bowling or romping, 
and we found so much to amuse us in the garret. 
Besides, we wanted to read, and there is nothing to 
sit on out there,” we said. 

“That’s so,” said Uncle. “Sarah, are there not 
some old chairs and tables in the garret that they 
can have in their house?” 

She had no objection to our having anything we 
wanted from up there; so Uncle made Dick take us 
out a table, a little bookcase and several chairs, and 
when he came back from town he brought us a 
hammock, which he swung up in a sunny corner, and 
a box of books suitable to our years. 

Uncle certainly was lovely to us. 

We were rejoiced when the sun shone again once 
more. As is usual in our climate in October, bright 
days generally mean warm ones. 

It was Saturday, and a number of the boys from 
Winfield came out to see us and to hunt. They 
brought their guns and we took the dogs. 

Nan rushed for the house as soon as she sighted 
them in the distance, too put out for anything. 

We went at once to the woods. Partridges were 
so numerous that fall there were plenty for us all. 
We gathered a lot of hickory and walnuts. 


jfom: ggomfrg at (gle ncaitn 8s 

The boys had a little menagerie in the town, and 
were full of it. Hoi had a black snake, Davis and 
John each a young fox, Harty a white mouse, Henry 
a lizard, and Fitz two rabbits. They kept them at 
Davis’s home, away down in the back lot. 

They wanted a crow to teach it to talk, and so we 
promised to be on the lookout for one. 

They were going ’possum hunting soon, and hoped 
to catch a mother ’possum with her pouch full of 
little ones. 

We had left Paul with Nan. As soon as the boys 
left we hurried home. We had enjoyed their com- 
pany very much, but still we missed Paul and Nan. 
As I said before, we were not used to the compan- 
ionship of other children. 

We found the stay-at-homes in our house with 
Ike. Paul was lazily swinging himself in the ham- 
mock, Ike was on the floor sunning himself in a 
broad patch of sunshine from the window, while 
Nan had curled herself up in the arm chair to read, 
but the book was on the floor and both Paul and her- 
self seemed deeply interested in something Ike was 
telling them. 

“O, Harold !” they exclaimed, as we entered, “are 
there witches?” 

“No,” I said, “why?” 

“Ike says he’s seen one,” said Paul. 

“Ike is fibbing,” I said. 

“Where, Ike?” asked Phil. 

“Dat I has seen ’em,” asserted Ike. “You kin ax 
Marse Jeems ef dere ain’t one down to Glen Hollow 
Swamps.” 

“Pshaw!” I said incredulously. 

“I don’ care w’at you say, Harold. I done seen 
’em, I has. Lots of folks roun’ here been seen ’em. 
Marse Jeems done seen ’em. Sometimes, she great 
tall ’ooman; sometimes she look lake squeechy HP 


86 jFout egontijs at Olencatnt 


gal. Dar ain’t no one, w’ite or black, w’at could 
cross dat branch for to git to see ’em. Ole Mr. 
Craymout, he know her, but he mos’ as bad as she 
be. Him hab links wid ole Satan, too.” 

“Where did she come from?” 

“How long has she been there?” 

“Where is the swamp?” we all asked, getting in- 
terested. 

“Daddy say she been here always. Dey call ’em 
witch w’en he been li’l boy. Dere ain’t nobody kin 
go dere,” he continued, sitting up and getting more 
excited. “De quicksands ! Dey so bad ! One man 
say he gwine ober dere, and he sink, he sink, tell 
he gone! gone under de san’,” and Ike rolled his 
eyes with horror. “Nobody kin cross dem san’s, 
’cepen dat ole witch. You kin ax anybody, and dey 
tell you dis same t’ing. She spells eberybody w’at try 
to come dere. Dey gits sick, dey gits lame, somet’ing 
happen ebery time dey goes dere. Folks jist lets 
’em alone now. Dey won’t go ’bout dere for nuttin’ 
No, sir!” 

Of course, we asked Uncle about her as soon as 
he came home. 

“Old Martha Lane!” he exclaimed. “I declare, I 
had forgotten about her existence. Well, there is no 
doubt about the quicksands being most treacherous, 
but Martha is no witch; just a poor criminal evad- 
ing the law. It was believed she killed her husband ; 
at any rate, he was found dead — had been dead for 
days — he had been shot, and she had taken her de- 
parture, no one knew where. 

“After a while, some one discovered a small house 
that had just been built in the middle of the swamp 
lands, on an elevated spot, where the quicksands 
circle all around it. 

“It was ascertained that she had taken refuge 
over there. 


JFout a^ontfts at <S 5 lencaint 87 

“The sheriff tried to get her, but the men sank to 
their armpits in the sands and were drawn out with 
difficulty. 

“Then they tried to starve her out, but she must 
have taken with her immense quantities of provis- 
ions. 

“At last they left her in disgust, and there she has 
stayed all these years. She must be a very old wom- 
an by this time. ,, 

“But, Uncle, Ike says sometimes she looks like a 
little girl,” Nan said. 

“O,” laughed Uncle, “the darkeys around here are 
so afraid of her they can’t see straight, if they ever 
happen to be in her neighborhood.” 

“The provisions must have given out long ago. 
How do you suppose she supports herself?” asked 
Aunt Sarah, who was hearing all this now for the 
first time, though she had been living at Glencairn 
for nine years. 

“It is a mystery. Really, I believe every one has 
forgotten old Martha. I haven’t thought about her 
for years. Dear Mother used to be distracted be- 
cause Brother and I loved to prowl around there; 
and she did, in truth, shoot right and left if she 
thought any one was spying upon her. I wouldn’t 
be surprised if she didn’t get supplies through Cray- 
mouth, that old mulatto, who lives on the other side 
of the swamp. He was thought to have been an ac- 
complice in the murder, but at the trial nothing could 
be proved. Old Luther Lane was a dreadful old 
reprobate, and the county was not particularly grieved 
at his sudden taking off. He owned all that swamp 
land, and a good deal more, adjoining Glencairn.” 

“Why, how far away does she live?” asked Aunt 
Sarah. 

“About eight or nine miles, out toward the south- 
east,” Uncle replied. 


88 jFour S©ont!)0 at ®ltntaim 


“Oh,” said Aunt Sarah, and I thought she looked 
relieved. 

Well, you know we were just dying with curiosity. 
We wanted to see old Martha with our own eyes. 
We danced with glee, when we went upstairs, be- 
cause Uncle had not forbidden us to go there. 

We wondered why Father had never spoken of 
old Martha to us; but then, we remembered, that 
everything- connected with Uncle James had been a 
painful subject to him, and he hardly ever referred 
to his old life at Glencairn. 

The very first chance we have, there is where we 
will go, we all agreed. 


CHAPTER X. 


GLEN HOLLOW SWAMP. 

The opportunity came pretty soon. Uncle had to 
go away .speech making, and Aunt Sarah and Bessie 
were invited to spend the day with the Raymonds in 
Winfield. 

So we decided to spend the day in the woods. 

Paul had been getting back his strength daily, and 
felt himself able to go, too; only we wouldn’t let him 
take his gun. 

We had a bountiful supply of lunch. Daddy 
Stephen had given us sandwiches, buttered biscuits, 
fruit cake, oranges and bananas. Maum Suckey had 
added raw potatoes and a small bucket of molasses 
to make candy. We took a box of matches to make a 
fire to roast the sweet potatoes and to boil the syrup. 

Maum Suckey laughed when she saw the old bag 
filled with all this, and said to us : 

“Marse Jeems done sen’ out de funeral invitation, 
enty ?” 

We had put on our oldest clothes, so, strapping on 
our leggings and belts, with guns and lunch we set 
off joyfully. 

Not a cloud was to be seen. The sunshine was de- 
lightful, and the air so cool and crisp that our spirits 
effervesced like champagne. Paul struck up “The 
Mulligan Guards,” and we all joined in, singing at 
the top of our voices. 

We passed Maum Suckey, standing in her cabin 

89 


90 jFour sgontljg at <S>leitcaim 

door, saying to herself, “Chillun is so happy,” while 
her face was decorated with a broad smile. 

We walked across into the woods, Ike having given 
us directions. 

We took one dog with us. 

It was a long, long tramp, and our guns got very 
heavy, but our excitement was great, for we were 
not going home again without having seen something 
to satisfy our curiosity. About one o’clock, I guess, 
we found ourselves tired enough to rest. Paul had 
held out splendidly, and was as gay as a lark. 

“I think we are almost there,” I said. “See how 
wet the ground is.” 

We sat down on a fallen tree trunk to eat our 
lunch. Then we gathered sticks and made a fire in 
a safe place, for we had no mind to set Uncle’s woods 
in a blaze. 

Soon we put in the potatoes, and fixed some sticks 
to hold Nan’s molasses bucket over the fire. 

Then we sat down again to eat and talk. We were 
near the branch; we could hear it gurgle over the 
stones. 

Nan’s thoughts were in her bucket now, for the 
molasses was beginning to boil. 

When it was done she put it aside to cool, and sat 
down on the log with us to wait for the potatoes. 

Having satisfied our hunger, we decided to leave 
the potatoes in the ashes, and the molasses to cool 
until we came back, and to go on now to the swamp. 

We walked quite a distance, then we noticed that 
the ground was becoming soft and spongy. 

We were getting to the edge of the thick wood 
lands. We climbed a high tree to reconnoiter. Just 
beyond the woods grew a broad strip of willows, be- 
yond the willows a thicket of canes and cat-tails, then 
came the branch, that was almost like a river at this 
place, wide but shallow, and spread out and divided 


JFout e@ottt&s: at ©lencatrtt 91 


in the middle by the sweep of treacherous sands. 
Then came another thicket of canes and willows, and 
beyond this the elevation of solid land, about four 
acres, I suppose, in the center of which stood the hut, 
surrounded by so high a palisade of pickets that 
nothing could be seen of it but the roof and the 
chimney. 

It was very desolate. We looked and looked for 
quite a time, but could neither see nor hear anything. 
Then we came down from the tree. I am not afraid 
of witches, but this was a very uncanny place to be 
in. We were four miles away from any human habi- 
tation, and we did not feel quite as brave as we had 
done while fastening on our leggings in our own 
room at Uncle’s house. 

Beppo, the hound, had been lying quietly under 
the tree. Just as we stood on the ground again he 
pricked up his ears, gave a short, quick bark and 
sprang forward. 

I grasped him with all my might, while the others 
fled into the woods. I pulled him along and ran to 
catch up with them. 

We had seen the old witch, and she had evidently 
seen us. We ran as fast as our legs could carry us. 

When we reached the place where we had made 
our fire we were forced to stop to rest, for Paul had 
given out. 

We thought we were at a safe distance, for, after 
listening a while, we could hear nothing, so, setting 
Beppo on guard, we took out our potatoes and sat 
down on the log to eat them. 

“Isn’t she awful?” said Phil. 

“Did you see her distinctly ?” I asked. 

“She is a little bit of thing.” 

“She had on a long blackish, grayish dress.” 

“Her hair stood out all around her head.” 

“It is nothing but a hideous tangle.” 


92 jfFour Q®ontb8 at <S5Iencaint 

“She is perfectly frightful !” they all exclaimed at 
once. 

Our fire had nearly gone out, so I pulled it to 
pieces and stamped out what was left. 

We hadn’t thought of our candy. Indeed, we 
didn’t feel secure enough to be pulling it out there. 
We jumped at the slightest sound, but Paul had to 
rest. 

Suddenly Beppo gave a bark, and Phil, in the wild- 
est alarm, sprang to his feet, pointing to the woods 
between us and the swamps, exclaiming, “Here she 
comes! Here she comes! She’s after us! Let’s 
run.” 

We were all on our feet, looking where he pointed, 
and we did see something scuttling off away from us. 

“She’s as much afraid of us as we are of her,” 
laughed Paul, who is afraid of nothing. 

But Phil had picked up his gun, and was already at 
a distance from us, shouting, “She’s gone for her 
gun. She’ll shoot you ! Come on !” 

Fearing this might be so, we got away in haste, 
nor did we stop until we were within sight of the 
pond on Uncle’s place. 

We were safe now, so we walked on leisurely, to 
give Paul a breathing space. 

“O, look!” he exclaimed, as a large slate-colored 
bird flew out of the weeds near the water. 

“It’s a crane,” I said. I fired, and down it fell, 
almost at our feet. Beppo caught it. It was hardly 
grazed by the shot, and Phil and I had a time of it 
binding its wings down with our combined handker- 
chiefs and the doilies. 

We were delighted with the prize, and decided to 
fasten it under our house, and to keep it there until 
we went back to Theydon Hall. 

We had to carry it very carefully, for it was cross. 


JFour 9@ottt&s at ©lettcaittt 93 


and would stretch out its long neck and nip at our 
faces and hands. 

Nan thought it beautiful, and wanted to help carry 
it, but we were afraid she might let it go. So I got 
her to take my gun instead, and Paul helped me 
with it. 

It was dinner time when we got home. Nan ran 
into the house to get a piece of cord, then we se- 
curely fastened the crane by the leg to the knob of 
our door and pushed it under the house for the 
night. 

Leaving it a lot of bread to comfort it during the 
long, weary hours, we hastened upstairs to get ready 
for dinner. 

When we came down to breakfast next morning 
Uncle was standing near the fire. In his hand he 
held a vase, which he had taken from the mantel- 
piece. 

“See this vase?” he said to us. “It belonged to 
your great, great, great-grandmother. I wouldn’t 
take anything for it,” he went on, handling it lov- 
ingly. “Isn’t it beautiful?” holding it out at arm’s 
length. 

We really did not admire it much. We thought it 
a very queer looking affair. 

We were interested, however, in what Uncle told 
us about it. It had come into the family as a gift 
from a friend, who was a great traveler. He brought 
it from Italy. 

Then Uncle put it back, and, taking Nan under 
the chin, he turned up her face, saying to Aunt 
Sarah, “When I see these two, Nan and Phil, I can 
hardly persuade myself that I am not looking at the 
little chap who used to gaze back at me from the mir- 
ror, some thirty odd years ago.” 

“They certainly are like you,” she assented. 

“Yes, they are perfect Glencoes,” 


CHAPTER XI. 


LEONORA, MY BELOVED. 

Sunday being- a pleasant day, we all went in to 
Winfield to church. 

Aunt Sarah wore a new winter’s suit and hat, and 
she did look so handsome we were proud of being 
the nieces and nephews of our “Yankee Aunt.” 

There was to be a special service in the afternoon, 
so Mrs. Rivers asked Uncle and Aunt Sarah to re- 
main over for it and to come home and dine with 
them. Bessie was to go also. 

We got into the carryall and drove back to Glen- 
cairn alone. 

At lunch we found that Daddy Stephen, seeing we 
would be the only ones at that meal, had taken him- 
self off, and delegated Christiana to be mistress of 
ceremonies. 

We took our seats and she poured out the choco- 
late, first nearly filling all of the cups with milk. 

“Christiana,” I said, “don’t do that ; don’t put any 
more milk in the chocolate.” 

But beyond pursing her lips, she took no notice of 
my request. 

“Christiana, throw that out. I’m not going to 
drink it,” said Phil. 

“It’s dat or none, Phil. Dere’s mor’n you to drink 
dis chocolate.” 

We nearly choked with wrath. 

“There is no butter on the table, Christiana,” said 
Nan. 


94 


jfout agotitftg at (glcttcatrtt 95 

But Christiana was warming herself at the fire. 

“Don’t you hear, Christiana?” 

“O, eat your lunch, chilluns, and stop pestering me 
so ; dere is nuttin’ more dan w’at you sees on de table. 
I alius did hate sassy chilluns, Mr. Gourdine,” ad- 
dressing Daddy Stephen, who was passing through 
the room. 

“So dus I, Miss White.” 

“Christiana, if you and Daddy Stephen can’t at- 
tend to your business, you can leave the room. We 
much prefer helping ourselves to hearing you con- 
verse,” I said, with great dignity. 

“Mind your business yourself, Harold,” she 
snapped; which so exasperated Paul that he picked 
up a table mat and threw it at her. 

In a fury, she rushed at Paul, evidently intending 
to box him, but Daddy Stephen interfered. Taking 
hold of her, he said, “Look here, Miss White. Don’t 
you be getting in no fight wid dese here chilluns. 
Marse Jeems so saft on dem, dere will be trouble 
sure, ef you does,” and carried her off, she looking 
coy and coquettish at his attentions. 

As the door closed upon them, Nan got up and 
brought butter, cheese and preserves from the side- 
board, and we finished our repast at our own leisure. 

Then we rang for the table to be cleared, after 
which we sat quietly reading in the comfortable din- 
ing room. 

The servants had all gone to church and we kept 
the castle. The silence could almost be felt. The 
clock tick-tocked, and chimed two or three halves. 

It was not to be expected that healthy children 
could keep quiet longer than that. 

We grew restless. 

“I wonder what the old crane is doing?” I said. 
“I think I’ll run out and see.” 

“I wish I could see it,” said Nan. “I am just crazy 


96 JFour 00ontfis at <S>lettcatnt 


to, but I am so tired to-day I feel as if I never 
wanted to move again. 

‘Til bring it in for you to see,” I said. 

“I wish you would, Harold.” 

"It's a wonder you and Paul are not both laid up, 
after that long run we had on Friday. I’m tired my- 
self.” 

So I went for the crane. 

O, how ridiculous it did look — just — a coming. I 
ran it fast. I was in for fun. 

When I got it to the dining room, I entered with 
my arm lovingly encircling its neck, calling it my 
sweetheart, and walked around the dining table, 
flirting with it and carrying on, just as they did in 
those garret stories we had been reading. 

Down went all the books, and the children began 
screaming with laughter. 

The crane was very much disturbed by the noise. 

Round and round the table I trotted it, so fast it 
kept tripping on its own toes. 

“She is so bashful, so shy,” murmured Phil, quot- 
ing from the garret literature. 

“Leonora, my love, speak to me. Do not turn 
from me,” I entreated, casting languishing eyes upon 
her. 

She spoke with a vicious peck at my face. 

“Remember that she is dangerous if ill treated,” 
said Nan. 

“I’d rather thrust my hand into the hottest fire 
than let her lips touch mine,” said Phil. 

“I love you,” I whispered. “I love you with that 
intensity that few men possess.” 

A horrible expression flashed through her eyes. 

“O, forgive me,” I said. “I forgot for the moment 
that you were not an ordinary woman.” 

She squawked. 

“Leonora, my beloved, be brave. There are others 


JFout Siomfjs at ©Iencaint 97 


here weaker than we, who need support from our 
calmness/' 

Again she squawked and struggled to get free. 

“My darling, pray do not apologize. I quite un- 
derstand." 

“Harold, how can you remember all that non- 
sense?" asked Nan, laughing. 

She stopped, and positively refused to take an- 
other step, almost hissing in wrath and terror. 

“Leonora, my beloved, I fail to comprehend you. 
What makes you stare at me so oddly? Is it — Good 
gracious ! Catch it ! Catch it !” I yelled, frightened 
almost out of my senses, for suddenly, while I was 
laughing, it slipped from my grasp, and, without any 
warning, had stretched its long wings and sailed up- 
ward in, as I remembered at the instant, Aunt Sarah’s 
beautiful dining room, with all its cut glass and 
china. 

I sprang on the table and the others on chairs. 

My good angel gave me its toe, which was stretched 
out behind it. I grasped it and hung on for dear life ; 
then slipping my other hand over its leg, I dragged 
it down to the floor, she lashing her wings up and 
down and uttering discordant cries. 

The chandelier swayed alarmingly. Great clouds 
of smoke, ashes and sparks filled the room, blinding 
us so that we were unable to see what had crashed 
upon the hearth. 

It was bedlam let loose in that dining room. 

I had to sit on her, for she was getting furious, 
in her fright, and the others had to help bind her 
wings again. 

Phil and I carried her out in haste, and tied her 
up ; then rushed back to put that room in order be- 
fore Uncle and Aunt Sarah came home. 

“What broke ?’’ I asked, as I opened the door. 

“Uncle’s vase,’’ was their horrified answer. 


98 jFottr fi@ortti)0 at Olettcairn 


It had struck on the andiron and lay in about one 
thousand pieces. 

We looked at each other in silence for about five 
seconds, and then the chorus broke forth. 

“Harold, what did you bring that old crane in here 
for, any way ?” 

“Nan asked me to.” 

“I didn’t dream you would do it, though.” 

“What will Uncle say?” 

“You are in for it now, boy.” 

“Why should it have struck that one old, ugly 
thing in all this room?” 

“I thought the chandelier was gone.” 

“Do you think Uncle will punish us ?” 

“Just look at Aunt Sarah’s dining room. Turn to, 
and help clean it up.” 

We got brooms and dusters, and did the best we 
could; but everything was so covered with ashes it 
wopld take Daddy Stephen half a day to get it per- 
fectly clean. 

I was in anything but a pleasant frame of mind. 
My conscience was pricking me. I knew we had not 
been good, and I had led the others into mischief. 

We picked up all the pieces of the vase and put 
them into a handkerchief. Then we went upstairs. 

Nan said, “Now, don’t let us put all the blame on 
Harold. I know I am as much to blame, and you, 
Phil and Paul, were enjoying the fun as much as we 
were.” 

So they generously said, “Let’s say ‘we did it’.” 

We quaked a little when we heard the phaeton 
wheels on the gravel driveway. 

We consulted upon the best way to break the news. 

We waited until we heard Uncle get settled in the 
•sitting room — probably smoking — then decided that 
what had to be done had better be done quickly. 

Father had taught us a little handkerchief play, in 


jFour s@otttf)0 at Olettcaim 99 


which you dress up your hands to represent a Father 
Confessor and a sinner. We thought Uncle would 
be sure to know this, too, as Father had learned it in 
his nursery days. 

So we took long bath towels and draped and pinned 
them about our heads and bodies, making them look 
as much as possible like the “sinner” in the hand- 
kerchief. 

Miserable as we were, we could not help giggling 
over the apparitions that we saw in the looking glass ; 
then, with beating hearts, each carrying a handful of 
the precious vase, we went down to the sitting room. 

We stood some minutes before we had the courage 
to turn the knob, then we filed in. Aunt Sarah saw 
us first, and in astonishment said, “Why, children!” 

Uncle ejaculated, “What in this world!” 

Miss Bessie murmured reprovingly, “Don’t you 
know this is Sunday?” 

But, heeding no one, we approached Uncle, and, 
bowing low, I said, “Father, I have come to con- 
fess.” 

Uncle looked at us in a puzzled manner for a min- 
ute, then, divining that we were there to apologize 
for some mischief done, fell in with our humor — 
we were sure he knew it — bent his head benevolently 
and spoke in deep sepulchral tones, “Well, child, 
well.” 

“We caught a crane last week,” went on Phil. 

Uncle again bowed and said, “Well, child, well.” 

“I desired to have him in,” continued Nan. 

“Well, child, well,” Uncle reiterated, but this time 
in abstracted tones, as if he were wondering what 
was coming next. 

“He got away from us,” piped Paul, “and smashed 
your lovely vase.” 

“In the dining room?” asked Uncle hastily. “You 
mean to say you had the crane in the dining room, 


ioo jFour #ontf)0 at (Slencatttt 


and it broke the Glencoe vase? What possessed 
you !” and, Mercy ! he was mad, and we were scared ! 

“Opportunity is the mother of mischief,” said Aunt 
Sarah gently. “We should not have left them alone.” 

“You mean to say they need a nurse?” Uncle asked 
angrily. “The Glencoe vase. I valued it so highly.” 

“Uncle, Uncle,” said Nan, bursting into tears and 
throwing her arms around his neck, “I am so sorry. 
I’d give you everything I have in the world if I could 
put it together again.” 

“Uncle,” I said, “it was my fault entirely. I will 
submit to any punishment, for, indeed, I am too 
sorry.” 

There was a moment’s silence, then Uncle said in 
a patient, sad tone, “Well, it’s gone; no use to say 
any more about it.” 

“These children are certainly old enough to know 
better,” Bessie sweetly remarked, “and I hope, Uncle, 
you will punish them most severely.” 

Aunt Sarah almost giggled. 

“Go upstairs now, and take off all that toggery, for 
dinner is waiting,” said Uncle, taking no notice of 
Bessie’s advice. “You surely know how to wheedle 
yourselves into the good graces of any one,” he con- 
tinued, recovering his usual good humor. 

We deposited the scraps of the ill-fated vase upon 
the coals, then ran upstairs. 

At dinner Uncle looked all about the room and 
said, “To think of your bringing that crane in here. 
I don’t see why anything is left.” 

Nor did we, either, but we didn’t say so. 

“I feel mightily tempted,” said Uncle, “to emulate 
the famous old dame of the shoe, and whip you all 
soundly and send you to bed.” 

“Wait, then, till we eat our broth, Uncle,” said 
Paul, “for I’m awfully hungry.” 


jfout g@ontf)S at <5 Icncatm i°i 

And so they let it pass, and we inwardly blessed 
the stars that had sent us to such kind relatives. 

What wouldn’t Grandmother Chase have done to 
us if the vase had been hers ! 


CHAPTER XII. 


“trapped.” 

The very next opportunity we had, we set off to 
the swamps again. 

We earnestly desired to catch another glimpse of 
the old witch; besides, there was Maum Suckey’s 
bucket that we had left in the woods. We either had 
to get that one or buy her another. 

This time we left all of the dogs at home, for 
they attracted attention by barking. 

Daddy Stephen gave us only biscuits for lunch. 
He was stingy, for he was mad with us. He had 
been obliged to spend all of Monday morning beat- 
ing ashes out of the carpet and curtains and polish- 
ing the smoke from the glass, and at each whack of 
the stick I think he was imagining that he had one of 
“dem beatenest chillun’ , thrashing him well. 

Uncle had gone to a political meeting. Aunt Sarah 
was embroidering a beautiful little dress for Bessie. 
She was all alone in the sitting room. As we came 
round the side piazza, we could distinctly see her 
through the open doors, but she did not see us. And 
to our astonishment, she was crying hard. My first 
impulse was to run in and ask her what was the mat- 
ter, but Paul said I had better not, he was sure she 
wouldn’t like it. 

Twice, while he was sick, she had cried in this 
way, when she thought him asleep, and on hearing 
Uncle coming had dried her eyes and was as bright 
as could be when he came in. 

102 


jFottt a^ontfts at ©Icncattit 103 


We wondered what could be wrong. 

No one asked us where we were going. If we an- 
nounced that we were going to take a day off in the 
woods, we were told to ask Daddy Stephen to put 
up our luncheon. 

We set off full of the idea that perhaps we might 
see the old witch again. 

We could not believe we had been deceived when 
she appeared to us no larger than Bessie, and yet 
Uncle had said that Martha Lane was a very tall, old 
woman. 

“This is the way of it,” said Nan. “Uncle hasn’t 
seen her for years, and she has shrunk. All old peo- 
ple do, Maum says.” 

“Look here, I dreamed she came up to my bed last 
night, Harold,” said Paul, “and her neck just kept 
on growing longer and longer, and she looked just 
like this. See here !” and Paul twisted his little slim 
body, clutched his fingers, bulged his eyes in his head 
and grinned his teeth at us. 

“Good gracious !” screamed Nan, “don’t look so 
hideous, Paul! I never saw anything so ugly. The 
witch would be frantic with envy if she could see 
you.” 

“That is the very way she looked, Nan. It scared 
me most to death.” 

We all laughed at him, and Phil told him it was 
those big saucers of ice cream that were responsible 
for those dreams. 

“The madam lives so far,” sighed Phil, after we 
had walked miles. 

“We will soon be there now,” I said. “Yonder is 
the place where we made the fire.” 

“Our bucket!” said Nan. 

We found it, but every bit of the thick molasses 
was gone. We could see the marks of fingers on the 
side. 


104 JFour ^ontfts at <$Iencm'rtt 

“The witch has very little fingers,” said Paul, “if 
she took it.” 

“And little feet, too,” I said, pointing to little bare- 
foot tracks all about in the soft earth. 

We picked up the bucket, and walked very cau- 
tiously towards the swamps. 

Soon we came almost directly in front of the place. 

The silence was profound. Nearer and nearer we 
crept. We passed a pile of little fagots and branches 
gathered up for firewood. Paul’s quick eye noticed a 
small, round hole in one end. 

“Looks as if some one hid in here,” he said. 

We stooped, and looked in the hole. There was a 
nice little space in the center, where the sticks had 
been pushed aside. 

Paul ventured in, and came back to tell us we 
ought to see in there. 

Then we crawled in. 

The ground was covered with soft moss, just like 
a carpet. Little grass strings of haws and berries 
hung on the sharp points of the fagots, and feath- 
ers and chicken wings were placed here and there. 

In one corner was a little nest of pine bark, lined 
with leaves, and in it was some of our molasses candy, 
orange peel and pieces of biscuits and sandwiches — 
the remnant of our feast. 

Plenty of light came through the crevices of the 
loosely piled branches, though the person within was 
completely hidden, and no one but Paul or an In- 
dian could ever have discovered that small, round 
hole. 

We wondered what all this could mean. We kept 
a sharp lookout for the old witch, though. 

At last, feeling rested, we crawled out again, then 
stood still and listened. 

Not a sound, except the falling of a nut at inter- 


jFotit Qgotttfig at (glettcatttt 105 

vals from the trees and the sighing of the wind in the 
pines. 

We climbed up a tree, the branches of which com- 
pletely hid us from view, and gazed at the high fence 
and closed gate. 

From the chimney a thin stream of smoke went 
curling up into the clear, blue sky. 

We sat up in our perch, each silently imagining 
how the hut looked inside. 

I saw the old witch bending over a seething caul- 
dron, mixing her charms, and chanting her incanta- 
tions to the owls and bats, like the witches in Mac- 
beth, whose pictures we had often seen in Father’s 
Shakespeare, when suddenly our reveries were broken 
in upon by an ear splitting shout from Paul. 

“Halloo, there, old witch! What are you doing? 
Come out here, and let us look at you. Halloo, I 
say !” 

It reverberated through the forest, and echoed 
from the palisades. 

We were paralyzed with fright. 

“Boy, are you crazy?” I cried. 

The little wretch was shaking with laughter, but 
his grins quickly disappeared when the large gate 
slowly swung open and out stepped the witch, tall 
and gaunt, bearing in one hand the gun, and with the 
other shading her eyes and peering in every direction 
to discover the venturesome creature who dared in- 
trude upon her solitude. 

Did we slip out of that tree in haste? I believe 
you we did. Then we merited our name of “The 
Fleet Footed Theydons” by covering the ground be- 
tween us with incredible speed. 

It took her some time to cross the branch and sands 
and we were not in the position to spy out her meth- 
ods, as we should like to have done. 

Looking over my shoulder, I saw the woman com- 


io6 jFour CJfJontfts at ©lettcatnt 

ing rapidly toward us, evidently directed by the sound 
of the underbrush, which crackled loudly under our 
retreating feet. 

We sped on then like arrows cutting the wind. 

“Bang! bang!” went a gun, and a bullet went 
whizzing over our heads. 

We began to be scared in truth now. 

“Fleet Footed Nannie” led us all, and, thinking of 
nothing but to escape from another bullet, what did 
she do but run straight to the witch's pile of fagots, 
then fall on her knees and crawl in. 

Phil followed, then Paul, so there was nothing left 
for me to do but to go in, too. 

“Now we are trapped. What in the world made 
you come in here?” I asked. 

We could hear our hearts beat. Never in our lives 
had we been so frightened. 

“This is just how rabbits feel,” I thought. “If I 
ever get out of this, IT1 never chase them again.” 

Through the crevices we watched the witch come 
striding straight towards us. Nan gave a little whim- 
per. “For heaven's sake, hush,” I whispered. 

“Shall I shoot her?” I thought, and then I remem- 
bered I had left my gun in the woods, leaning against 
a tree. 

She came up close to the fagot pile. We could see 
her plainly through the crevices of the branches. We 
could have touched her long, dirty, bare feet. She 
stood looking all around. 

We shook so we stirred the branches. Our eyes 
were fastened on her, while we crouched close to the 
ground. 

She went to the other side of the pile. Our 
thoughts became earnest prayers, for we were stiff 
with fright. 

I wondered if she would drag us out by our hair ; 
and it almost stood up on end at the thought. 


JFour S@ontJ)S at ©lencaint 107 


Then I wondered what they would do at Glencairn 
if we never returned. 

I didn’t see how we could escape. She would have 
no mercy. Wasn’t she a murderess! Hadn’t she 
killed her own husband ! 

We scarcely breathed. 

She walked round and round the pile. She was an 
old, old hag, with rough, wild, uncombed hair as 
white as snow, straggling all about her wrinkled face ; 
and the nails on the hand that held the gun looked 
like claws. 

She stooped down and peered back into the woods 
through the underbrush. Then she stood up, folded 
her gun in her arms, shook her old head, and mut- 
tered, ‘This beats all! Whatever has become of 
them varmints !” 

She pulled off a fagot from the pile, then turned 
and went back to the swamps. 

Could it be possible that she had forgotten the lit- 
tle opening, or were there two of them? 

We were four grateful children for deliverance, 
and we resolved never again to risk our lives out 
here. 

But even after she had disappeared we were afraid 
to move, lest she should be hiding somewhere near, 
and hear us and return. 

After a long, long time we were too cramped, cold 
and weary to stand it any longer, so out, on our hands 
and knees, we came, and crawled away for a long 
distance, stopping every minute to listen, until we 
were sure we were quite out of danger, then we made 
a bee line for home, nor did we stop until within call- 
ing distance of the colored people’s cabins. 

Here we dropped to a walk, and slowly dragged 
ourselves along towards the house, stumbled up the 
front steps and threw ourselves flat upon the piazza 
floor. 


io 8 jFour 00ontl)0 at <j>lencaitn 


O, how delightful the feeling of safety ! 

We saw a carriage under the trees and knew Aunt 
Sarah had company, but we could not stir. Never 
before had we been so exhausted. 

We lay with our heated faces flat against the cold 
floor, our eyelids closed, panting, when the door 
opened and Aunt Sarah and her guests came out. 

They gazed at us in astonishment. 

“Why, children !” exclaimed Aunt Sarah involun- 
tarily, surprised at our lack of manners. “Stand up.” 

We exerted ourselves, and managed to get upon 
our feet. 

“What have you been doing? Where have you 
been ?” the ladies asked, shocked at our appearance. 

“We — have — have — bee — been — run — run — run- 
ning,” we panted. 

“From what?” the ladies asked; but we began to 
laugh hysterically. 

Aunt Sarah glanced down at our clothes, and then 
we discovered, for the first time, that we were in a 
dreadful plight. What with the rents and slits, we 
looked as if we belonged to that tattered family of 
beggars who went to town. 

Our faces and hands were smeared with mud and 
blood, from the numerous scratches and cuts we had 
received as we crawled rapidly, on all fours, away 
from our hiding place. 

Aunt Sarah is a wise woman. We could see she 
knew we had been in some mischief again; but she 
asked no more questions. 

She told us, however, to go upstairs and change 
our clothes, then to lie down and rest. 

We went upstairs as we were told, but, too wearied 
to change our rags, we threw ourselves upon my 
bed. 

But we were not destined to be left in peace. Small 


jFour e©oml)5! at ©lencaitn 109 


Bessie had seen us, and curiosity soon led her steps 
to our room. 

She came to the bedside and stood looking at us in 
silence with very disapproving eyes. 

“I really should like very much to know what mis- 
chief you children have been in now,” she said at 
length, in tones of great severity. 

Phil on his back murmured, “Would you really, 
now.” 

“Just look at your clothes — those nice new clothes,” 
she continued. “You will look disgraceful when 
Aunt Sarah’s nieces come, and we will be so ashamed 
of you. Poor Mother !” she went on, “she tries so 
hard to make you decent, but you fustrates all her 
efforts.” 

“Fustrates,” teased Paul. “Has Christiana been 
giving you lessons. Boys, did I not tell you Chris- 
tiana was going to be Bessie’s Ma now.” 

“She is not going to be my Ma,” she replied 
angrily. “She is much more yours, for Aunt Sarah 
does notice me sometimes, and you know no one but 
Christiana ever does anything for you. And that’s 
what you deserve” — shaking her finger at us — “for 
you are, not one of you, much better than Ike.” 

We were so tired and cross that we couldn’t help 
getting angry with this little chit of a child scolding 
us as if she were our mother. 

So, rising on my elbow and pointing to the door, I 
said, “Bessie, do you see that door? Now, walk! 
We are tired of you.” 

“I will go when I please, Harold,” she answered, 
planting herself more firmly against the bed and look- 
ing at us in a most exasperating manner. 

“Yes, you will, too,” said Phil. “Go this minute, 
or I’ll make you.” 

“Run, Bessie, darling,” said Nan in a conciliatory 


no jfour Coombs at <2>Iettcafttt 


voice, anxious to keep the peace. “Run on, we are so 
tired.” 

But Bessie began to quietly hum a tune. Paul and 
Phil, with one impulse, sprang off the bed and, rush- 
ing at “My Lady/' seized her and began forcibly to 
take her out. 

She struggled and screamed, but in vain. She was 
not strong enough to resist them. 

When she found herself actually outside the door, 
in a rage she caught Phil’s hand and bit it till she 
drew the blood, only letting go when he dealt her a 
resounding blow on her cheek. 

Louder and louder she screamed for Aunt Sarah 
and Uncle James. No one came to the rescue, so the 
boys took her and seated her on the lowest step lead- 
ing to the garret. 

As soon as they let go of her they made a rush for 
the door, followed by her. 

They reached the door first, and, slipping in, they 
slammed it with all their might. They saw Bessie’s 
hand, but too late to prevent the door from closing on 
it, so were not surprised to hear the screams of anger 
change into shrieks of agony. 

“What have you done to her?” Nan and I ex- 
claimed, springing from the bed. 

The boys had opened the door and were gazing at 
Bessie with countenances where anger, shame and 
remorse were wonderfully mingled. Nan ran to the 
child, who, with her hand clasped close to her, was 
crouching upon the floor, rocking to and fro, scream- 
ing. 

Nan took her in her arms and hugged and kissed 
her, and begged her not to cry, and Bessie’s cries did 
become fainter, then stopped altogether, and sud- 
denly her head fell over upon Nan’s shoulder. 

We were sure she was dying, she was so white, 


jFour figjontfis at ©lencaint m 


and in dreadful alarm we all called at once for Uncle 
and Aunt Sarah. 

“Paul rushed down stairs yelling, “O, Aunt Sarah ! 
Aunt Sarah! Hurry! Hurry! Bessie is dying! 
She's dying!” 

Uncle was just coming in the back door, and, not 
stopping to take off his gloves nor to put down his 
riding whip, came bounding up the steps three at a 
time, followed by Aunt Sarah, Christiana and Moi- 
sey, the housemaid. 

Paul ran before them to our room, where Nan was 
still holding Bessie. 

“Why, she has fainted !” said Aunt Sarah. “What 
has happened?” 

Then Uncle ran for water, and Christiana scuttled 
down stairs for smelling salts and camphor. 

They soon revived her, but she moaned piteously 
and began to cry again. 

Her hand was bundled up in her dress, and there 
was still too much confusion to tell what hurt her. . 

Uncle asked, “Where did she fall from? How did 
it happen ?” 

“It is her hand that is hurt, Uncle. She mashed it 
in the door,” explained Nan. 

“Paul and Phil slammed the door on it,” Bessie 
now began to wail. 

“She bit me,” growled Phil. 

Aunt Sarah had now got the wounded hand out 
from the dress, and the sight of it aroused pity in us 
all, and indignation in the grown people. 

Bessie wailed louder than ever when she saw the 
hand. It was dreadfully discolored already and 
swollen, and her ring was crushed in the soft flesh 
of her third finger. 

Uncle could not get the ring off, so he sent a ser- 
vant for Dr. Rivers, who had been at the Mill House 
just before Uncle came in. 


1 12 jFour ^ont!)$ at ©lencattn 

“Paul and Phil did it on purpose,” Bessie kept 
wailing. 

Uncle was furious. He seized Phil firmly with 
one hand, while the other still held the whip, and in 
another minute I believe he would have struck him, if 
Aunt Sarah had not laid her hand on his arm and 
said, “Don’t, Jim. Wait till you hear how it hap- 
pened.” 

I then told him how it happened. The wonder was 
that Bessie’s hand had not been broken, but the truth 
was her small body had received the brunt of the 
blow ; only the pain in the hand was so great she did 
not complain of those bruises until the next day. 

Finding that Bessie was not going to die, we four 
slipped off to change our clothes before the excite- 
ment cooled enough for our rags to be noticed by 
Uncle. 

Dr. Rivers came right over from the Mill House, 
and Christiana brought him up stairs. 

Uncle had Bessie on his knee trying to soothe her. 
She was still wailing that Paul and Phil had done it 
on purpose, and Uncle was itching to wallop Phil. 

“What’s the matter now?” asked the doctor. “My, 
Jim, but you look fierce,” and the doctor laughed till 
he coughed. 

“Well, look at this hand? Isn’t that enough to 
make me angry ? The boys slammed the door on it.” 

The doctor was all concern, and went to work at 
once to remove the ring without causing too much 
pain. 

The poor little child suffered dreadfully, though. 

At last it was dressed and put into a sling. Then 
Bessie got sleepy, and Uncle took her down stairs 
and laid her on the davenport in the sitting room. 

We were thoroughly worn out with fatigue and 
fright, and went to bed just after tea. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


GUESTS. 

The next few days we devoted ourselves to Bessie! 
Her hand was very painful, but it was yielding read- 
ily to treatment. 

We felt quite remorseful. She accepted our at- 
tentions very well on the whole ; at any rate, it pleased 
Uncle and Aunt Sarah. 

Aunt Sarah did not devote herself to her entirely, 
as she had to Paul, and that was a great surprise to 
Bessie. 

Uncle, however, was all her heart could desire. 
Every afternoon he came home with something for 
her in his pockets, and she was becoming very, very 
spoiled. 

Aunt Sarah expected those nieces daily now, and 
as Uncle was away nearly every day that week, 
speech-making in the country around, we had to go 
to Winfield every afternoon to meet them. 

Miss Alice did not specify any day in her last let- 
ter, but only wrote “some day during the week.” 

“Just like her,” laughed Uncle. 

On Friday Aunt Sarah said that without doubt 
they would come that afternoon. 

We wanted to make a good impression on the 
young ladies. We put on our best suits, had our 
shoes polished till they shone like mirrors, carefully 
arranged our neckties, brushed down our wretched 
curls, then took a long look in the glass. 


1 14 JFout at ©lencai'rn 

The boys said I winked approbation at my reflec- 
tion, but they fibbed, I believe. 

We were not going in the old carryall, but in the 
handsome carriage, with Daddy Frank, Uncle’s coach- 
man, in all his finery, driving the frisky blacks. 

Phil and I thought Paul was too small to do the 
honors on this occasion, and wanted to leave him at 
home, but, seeing how dreadfully disappointed he 
looked, we allowed him to come, provided he prom- 
ised to return outside with Daddy Frank. 

We drove through Winfield in style, around that 
old town clock to the station. 

There we got out and strutted up and down the 
platform, feeling, I will confess it, rather large. 

Presently we heard the whistle of the train and it 
came thundering around the curve into sight. 

All the men and boys in Winfield rush down to the 
depot when the train comes in. 

We tried to press through the crowd of men, but 
before we could get near the train, being so often 
pushed aside, we were crushed, we were mortified at 
seeing two young ladies, evidently our expected 
guests, being escorted from the platform by five or 
six young men, who seemed delighted to see them. 

We ran to catch up, but feeling a little abashed at 
the idea of introducing ourselves before so many 
strangers, fell behind them. 

“O, yes,” we heard one of the gentlemen say, “Col. 
They don’s carriage is just around the corner.” 

“Is Uncle Jim here?” one of the ladies asked, in a 
voice like Aunt Sarah’s. 

“I think not,” another answered. “He is always 
away on political business these days.” 

“How do you do, Miss Alice, Miss May. I’m 
mighty glad to see you again,” and here were more 
men coming to welcome them. 

But imagine our dismay when we saw them escort 


JFotit gjontfrg at aiettcaitn 115 

the ladies to the carriage, help them in, then close the 
door, and Daddy Frank gather up the reins, prepar- 
ing to drive off. 

“Hold on, there,” shouted Paul, his face flushed 
and screwed with anxiety. “You don’t expect us to 
walk home, do you?” 

The gentlemen turned, and Mr. Rivers, the doc- 
tor’s son, said, “Here are Col. Theydon’s nephews 
now. I expect they are looking for you.” 

“Yes, we came in for them,” I said. 

We got in. 

“I didn’t know Uncle Jim had any relatives,” said 
Miss May, the younger of the ladies. 

“Are you staying at Glencairn ?” Miss Alice asked. 

“Yes, we will be there till Christmas, I suppose.” 

“Good Heavens!” ejaculated Miss May. 

We drove quite through town before we could 
summon up courage to speak another word to the 
ladies. 

They were discussing the young men they had met 
at the station with great animation. 

At last Miss Alice, the one like Aunt Sarah, said, 
“We are almost cousins, are we not? And here we 
have been driving more than a mile, and neither May 
nor I know even your names. Come, introduce your- 
selves.” 

I had prepared a fine introduction to be delivered 
at the depot, but, being so unexpectedly called upon, 
the color rushed to my face, and I had only pres- 
ence of mind enough to say, “My name is Harold, 
he is Phil, and that’s Paul,” for Paul had not kept his 
promise, but had ensconced himself inside. 

“Theydon?” she asked. 

“Yes,” I said, “Father is Uncle James’s brother.” 

“What in the world does Aunt Sarah mean by fill- 
ing up the house with brats when she expected us?” 
Miss May rudely asked. 


u6 jFour ^ont{)0 at ©lencaittt 


“O, May, aren’t you ashamed of yourself ?” laughed 
Miss Alice. 

“Father is sick, and had to leave home; so Uncle 
brought us here,” I laconically explained. 

“I wish your father had chosen another time for 
his illness. The small boy is my bete noir,” continued 
Miss May. 

“We are not going to bother you,” snapped Paul, 
glowering at her, for which I punched my elbow 
into his side. 

“Quit, Harold,” he said, shrugging up his shoul- 
ders and looking as saucy as a kitten. 

“May has a bad headache, boys. Riding on the 
train always makes her sick, so you must excuse her,” 
apologized Miss Alice. 

“Yonder goes Dick with the trunks,” said Paul, 
“I wish I had gone back with him in the wagon.” 

“How is Aunt Sarah?” asked Miss Alice, trying to 
be pleasant. 

“Now we will see Glencairn soon. How I love it. 
Yes, there it is, and dear Aunt Sarah on the piazza, 
and two little girls. Are they visiting here, too?” 

“Yes, there are five of us.” 

Miss May looked disgusted. 

Aunt Sarah was charmed to see her nieces, and 
they went into the house chatting gaily. We had 
never seen her so lively before. 

Neither of the ladies noticed the girls, which 
miffed little Miss Bessie very much. 

We went into the cozy sitting room and waited for 
them to come down, but they were not in a hurry to 
do so. 

Aunt Sarah was with them, and they were prob- 
ably telling her all the news from her home. 

We rose, as we had seen Father and Uncle do, 
when the ladies entered the room. Miss Alice is 
very much like Aunt Sarah, the same shaped face, 


jfottt Ofronw at ©lettcafttt n 7 


color of the hair and eyes, small feet and hands, slen- 
der, with quick, graceful movements, but she hasn’t 
the finished look Aunt Sarah has. I liked her at once. 

Miss May is broader, taller, stouter, altogether 
made on a larger scale; and I didn’t like her at all. 

“She is probably a Faulkner,” I thought, “for 
she doesn’t look the least like her sister nor Aunt 
Sarah.” 

Presently we heard Uncle coming along the hall. 
Both of them ran to meet him, but Miss Alice got 
ahead, and Uncle caught her and kissed her as if she 
had been his own daughter. He kissed Miss May 
also, but I knew which one was his favorite. 

Uncle just carried on with them like a boy ; teased 
Miss Alice to his heart’s content, and teased Aunt 
Sarah, too, as much as he dared. 

I have always enjoyed seeing grown people on 
their own level. They reach down to us, and are not 
their real selves. 

But here Uncle was too nice. Always just as cour- 
teous as he could be, but so bad and funny. 

We had a good time, though we were unnoticed. 
Finally Bessie could stand this no longer, so arose 
and stood by Uncle. 

He lifted her to his knee and kissed her, and then 
the young ladies, Miss May especially, exclaimed, 
“O, what a perfectly beautiful child ! Such hair ! I 
adore that color. And those eyes ! Come here, you 
darling !” and Bessie, having become the center of at- 
traction, waxed charming, and got stuffed with com- 
pliments. 

After tea they went into the drawing room. We, 
having felt Miss May’s snubs rather keenly, didn’t 
follow, indeed, we were not asked to do so.. 

We remained in the sitting room, inclined to be 
sulky, till Nan, who is. never anything but cheerful, 
got up and silently, with those nimble feet of hers, 


ns jFout 00ontl)0 at < 5 Iencaint 


began to execute the shadow dance. One by one we 
joined in, and in joyous motion forgot our ill temper, 
and went off to bed in good humor. 

The arrival of these guests made a great change at 
Glencairn. Every day young ladies would drive out 
and dine or stay to lunch, and every evening crowds 
of gentlemen would come calling, while there was 
very often some one staying over night. 

We didn’t see much of this company, though. They 
had no idea of being bothered by brats, small fry, or 
infants, as Miss May called us. We were certainly 
jostled aside. We admired their handsome clothes, 
we enjoyed the scraps of conversation that reached 
our ears, but they ignored our very existence. 

One afternoon, the day being warm and sunny, 
all the household moved out on the piazza after din- 
ner, just as we had done when we first came. Uncle 
and his pipe were there, too. 

Bessie had been pining for taffy for many days. 
Leaving the circle, she stole out on the lawn. She 
had on a little wrap with long, loose sleeves. 

Out there, she began to float gracefully over the 
grass, waving her arms with a slow, lazy movement. 

“Behold,” said Phil, “ ‘The Human Butterfly.’ ” 

Every eye turned towards the little girl. She really 
was beautiful, but her eyes wandering again and 
again to the piazza showed that all this was done for 
effect. 

“My beauty,” Uncle said to gratify her. 

“She is perfectly lovely !” exclaimed Miss Alice en- 
thusiastically. 

“I never have seen anything prettier,” said Miss 
May. 

“So self conscious, though,” remarked Aunt Sarah. 

“Fly up here, little darling, and let us kiss you,” 
called out Miss Alice. 

That night at tea, Paul, sitting just opposite Bes- 


jFotit ggontftg at (glcttcaitn m 

sie, with his hands gave a mimic pantomime of “The 
Butterfly” over his plate. 

He copied her motions exactly, giving her upward 
glances for approval, and looking so funny, we 
couldn’t help giggling, though there was company 
present, Mr. Rivers and Dr. Springs having come at 
dusk. 

Presently we found Bessie in a new role. She was 
silently, gracefully weeping in her handkerchief. It 
upset Phil, who was drinking tea, and he spilled some 
on the tablecloth. 

I immediately glowered a warning at him. 

“Just three, Harold,” he whispered, nodding his 
head vigorously at me. “Just ,” waving three fin- 

gers across the table. 

“What are these children up to, any how,” ex- 
claimed Miss May. “Here’s one crying, and the 
others making signs to one another. What are you 
doing?” she asked, turning around suddenly to me. 
I sat next to her. 

But Miss Alice had caught on, and was tickled to 
death. 

“They are being naughty,” said Uncle. T think 
Aunt Sarah will have to excuse them, and they can 
leave the table.” Which brought us to our senses im- 
mediately, and we behaved ourselves. 

One morning, coming in from the woods, where we 
had been playing, we found Miss Diana and Miss 
Penelope Rivers spending the day. 

We sat down a few minutes in the sitting room 
listening to them talk, all of them at once. We 
couldn’t understand anything, but they seemed to be 
having a jolly good time. 

Presently Miss May remarked that if there was a 
fire in the dining room, the infants had better take 
themselves off. 


120 JFour 9 |om& 0 at <2>lencaint 


“I can’t stand children around,” she whispered to 
Miss Diana. 

So we left in dudgeon. 

“Now, don’t you come in here, chilluns. I am 
goin’ to sw T eep an’ dus’,” said Daddy Stephen in the 
dining room. 

So to the library we went. Aunt Sarah, at the writ- 
ing desk, turned round and said, “If you are coming 
in here, children, you must be perfectly quiet, for I 
am copying something for Uncle James and can’t be 
disturbed. You had better go to the sitting room.” 

So, in anything but sweet tempers, we went out to 
our own house and sat down to sulk. We hoped we 
would all have meningitis, sitting out there in the 
cold — the sun was not shining — then when they all 
had to nurse us they would be sorry they had treated 
us so badly. 

“I despise grown folks,” I growled. 

“Always saying, ‘Little Pitchers,’ ‘A chile amang 
ye,’ ‘Children should neither be seen nor heard’,” Nan 
added sarcastically. 

“Just want to talk about their beaux. That’s all 
I’ve heard since they came here,” went on Phil. 

“Wish they would go home. Spoiling all our holi- 
days,” muttered Paul. 

“Can’t understand a word they say — all talking at 
once,” said Phil. 

“Not worth understanding,” I added. 

“I hope I’ll never be grown up,” said Paul. 

“Well, if you have meningitis, maybe you won’t,” 
said sensible Nan. 

“Does it hurt?” 

“So they say.” 

“Well, don’t let us have it. Just let’s have croup.” 

“That hurts, too.” 

“You’ll have to take something nasty, if you get 
sick, Paul.” 


jFour at ©lencatrtt 121 


“Well, don’t let’s have anything.” 

Whereupon we all shouted with laughter, and felt 
so much better we returned to the house. 

At dinner they discussed a fox hunt that Uncle 
proposed for next morning. 

He had invited four gentlemen, and Miss Diana 
and Miss Peno must stay all night. 

“O, let us go. Please, please, Uncle, darling, let 
us go. We can ride. Can’t we, Uncle?” all of us 
pleaded. 

But, no, we couldn’t go. There were no horses for 
us to ride. 

“Well, we can go on the mules.” 

“Now, wouldn’t that be a stylish turnout. Half a 
dozen children jogging on behind on mules,” laughed 
Miss Alice. 

“And every minute or two screaming out, ‘Wait! 
Wait! Don’t go on so fast! Uncle, please whip up 
this mule; he won’t go’,” teased Uncle. 

“No, we wouldn’t, either,” we murmured, for we 
saw we were to be left behind. 

“I think you might,” whined Paul. 

“And be thankful,” said Miss Peno, adding her lit- 
tle say, “if you don’t have to go back, carrying a de- 
ceased child, precipitated over the mule’s head.” 

“Or smashed under its lively heels,” finished Miss 
Dian. 

The grown folks were quite merry at our expense, 
but very decided, nevertheless, upon our not being of 
the party. 

We were dreadfully “cut up” over it, but we saw 
we might as well make the best of it, and at least en- 
joy the preparations and listen to their plans. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


THE HUNT. 

Next morning we got up when the first sound of 
stirring in the house was heard, and came down long 
before the young ladies. Uncle was up, though, ready 
to receive the gentlemen. 

He laughed when he saw us, and promised we 
should go with him some time soon. 

It was pitch dark outside. In the dining room 
there was a blazing fire burning. The table was set 
for the early breakfast, and Christiana and Daddy 
Stephen were up, passing in and out, making prepa- 
rations for that meal and mightily provoked at see- 
ing “dem chillun up so early.” 

“They will be here directly, now,” said Uncle. 
“Nan, go and see if Aunt Sarah is awake, and tell her 
it is time to get up now.” 

Nan skipped off to obey. 

“Well,” he said, as she returned, “did you wake 
her?” 

“Yes, Uncle.” 

“Is she getting up?” 

“No, Uncle.” 

“How do you know she is awake ?” 

“She answered me.” 

“Pshaw, child, she’s not awake. Go back, and try 
again. Shake her, this time. Sarah surely loves her 
morning’s nap.” 

“O, Uncle, I can’t,” said Nan. “I’m afraid she 
wouldn’t like it.” 


122 


jfour fl©onti)0 at ©lettcairn 123 


“I can, Uncle. Let me try/’ said Paul. 

“All right. Just so somebody wakes her, I don’t 
care who it is. Here they come now. Tell her to 
hurry, and then go and wake the girls.” 

So saying, he went out to greet his guests, while 
we tiptoed after Paul, anticipating some fun. 

How would he wake her ? There was a lamp burn- 
ing in the room, and we could see Aunt Sarah, 
sweetly sleeping. 

Paul stepped in, then, going up to the bed, he 
boldly put his hands upon her shoulders, then, turn- 
ing to grin at us, shook her briskly. 

But he didn’t wake her. 

We nearly collapsed as we watched him give her 
another shake, and when he did finally rouse her, we 
laughed aloud at the look of surprise and indignation 
she gave him, met on his part with stout defiance. 

“Uncle sent me, Aunt Sarah. He told me to shake 
you till I got you awake. It is well you woke up 
just then, Aunt Sarah. Do you know what I was 
going to do? I was going to put the wet wash rag 
on your face. What would you have done to me, 
Aunt Sarah?” 

“I am afraid I would have slapped you, Paul.” 

Aunt Sarah was wide awake now and laughing. 

“Now I have to go and wake up the girls,” and he 
lightly scampered off in glee, followed by all of us 
on tiptoe. 

We listened at the door, but heard nothing. We 
opened the door and called, but no one answered. 

Then Paul went in, feeling his way to the bedside. 
Then we heard a kiss, then another, then Miss Alice 
say hurriedly, “Dian !” 

“Yes,” said Miss Dian, sleepily. 

“Did you touch me just now?” 

“No. Why?” waking up now. 

“I thought some one kissed me.” 


124 JFour #ottt!)S at <S>lettcatrn 

“O, Alice, you are dreaming,” and Miss Dian 
laughed. 

“No, positively. Some one did kiss me.” 

They moved as if they were sitting up to listen, and 
they heard Paul snicker. 

“Who’s there?” demanded Miss Alice in brave 
tones. “Answer, or I’ll call.” 

Then Paul threw his arms around her and kissed 
her and kissed her, while both of the ladies, or girls, 
as Uncle calls them, shrieked, and we jumped and 
shouted with laughter. 

“What do you little scamps mean?” she asked 
angrily. “I’ll tell Uncle Jim if you ever dare to 
frighten us in this way again.” 

“Why,” drawled Paul, demurely, “Uncle sent me, 
Miss Alice. He told me to wake you. I called and 
called, but you wouldn’t answer, so I had to kiss you 
to wake you up. Well, I must go and wake Miss 
May and Miss Peno now.” 

“Well, young man, you had better not try to kiss 
her.” 

Paul went softly into the adjoining room, and 
though the door between was open, neither stirred as 
he went softly up to the bed. He stooped to kiss Miss 
May, when suddenly she threw her strong arm 
around him, sat up in bed and laid him across her 
knee, whereupon there arose a sound of thumps and 
screams of laughter from Paul. 

“O, Miss Alice, make Miss May stop !” he shouted. 
“She’s got a hair brush, and she is just b-e-a-ting 
me.” 

“That’s right, May. Just give it to him,” from 
Miss Alice’s room. 

“O, Miss May! I’m not going to kiss you any 
more ! O, Miss May ! O, Miss May !” each time in a 
higher key, while the paddling went on vigorously, 
and the “girl ladies” shrieked with laughter. 


jFour e^ontfjs at < 2 >lencatnt 12s 


‘Til teach you a lesson, young man,” and I doubt 
if Paul ever had a more painful one, though he was 
game and took it good-naturedly. 

Just then Uncle blew a long blast on his horn in 
the low^r hall, and the hounds began to bay, which 
sounds roused the young ladies effectually. 

“O, it's the hunt!” they exclaimed. “Have the 
gentlemen come? Light the lamp, Nan. Run away, 
boys, and tell Uncle Jim we’ll be ready in a few min- 
utes. Send Moisey to us, Nan.” 

Another blast, and we went flying down stairs, 
singing at the top of our voices : 

“A southerly wind, and a cloudy sky, 

Proclaim it a hunting morning. 

Before the sun rises, away we fly, 

Dull sleep and a drowsy bed scorning. 

Hark ! Hark ! Forward ! 

'Tan-ta-ra, Tan-ta-ra, Tan-ta-ra. 

Hark ! Hark ! Forward ! 

Tan-ta-ra, Tan-ta-ra, Tan-ta-ra.” 

“Who taught you that?” asked Aunt Sarah, who 
was just leaving her room, looking perfectly charm- 
ing in her riding habit. 

“Auntie taught it to us.” 

“It’s pretty,” she said. 

We watched her as she shook hands with the gen- 
tlemen. She was so graceful and handsome. Uncle 
looked at her as if he thought, too, she was the loveli- 
est lady in the land. 

The girls, as Uncle calls them, were looking fine, 
too. 

We were not expected at the breakfast, but we 
could hear they were a very merry party in there. 

After breakfast we went on the piazza to see them 
off. 


i26 jFout 0§ont&s; at <£>lencaitn 


The horses were pawing and champing, the dogs 
baying and running back and forth, the ladies and 
gentlemen laughing and chatting. 

It all sounded so nice to poor little us. 

Major Carlisle rode away with Aunt Sarah, Uncle 
and Miss Diana, Mr. Rivers and Miss Alice, Dr. 
Springs and Miss May, and Mr. Charlton with Miss 
Peno. 

We stood watching them until they were out of 
sight, then returned to the deserted house. 

To be left behind ! It was too bad ! 

Aunt Sarah had commissioned Christiana to make 
some purchases in Winfield, so she and Daddy 
Stephen intended, as soon as it was light enough, to 
drive to town. 

Nan promised Christiana to help Bessie dress when 
she woke up. 

Daddy Stephen told us to sit down and eat our 
breakfast, as he wanted to clear the table. 

We did so, and except that Christiana and him- 
self would keep up a conversation, they behaved 
themselves much better than on the Sunday when 
we last kept the castle. 

Christiana was loud in her praises of Aunt Sarah. 
“She was the beautifullest, bountifullest, complais- 
antfullest, elegantist lady what ever have been seen. 
And the piousest, too, Mr. Gourdine. I’ll wager 
you a kiss, that them knees of hern was bent in 
prayer this very same hunting morning.” 

“Jest so, Miss White. Jest so ” and so on. 

They finished up their necessary work in the 
house, and, taking Moisey, they set off for Winfield 
in the carryall. 

All alone, we sat quietly by the dining room fire, 
talking for a long time. 

We were discussing the hunting party, of course, 
guessing who would kill the fox, grumbling a little 


jFout S@ontf)0 at ©lettcaitn 127 


that we had been left behind ; then fell to wondering 
how rich Uncle could be, and comparing Glencairn 
with Theydon Hall. 

We greatly admired Glencairn, but were loyal to 
our own Theydon Hall. 

“I have been in every room in this house but 
one,” said Paul. “Did you know there is a room back 
of Aunt Sarah’s ?” 

“Why, no,” we all exclaimed. 

“When I was sick I tried to get in there one day, 
but the door was locked — it was always locked.” 

“I wonder if it is open now,” said Phil. 

“Let’s go and see,” said Nan. 

“Nobody to say us nay,” said I. 

So up we jumped, and went across the hall, and 
walked into Aunt Sarah’s room — naughty chidren 
that we were. 

Everything was in perfect order. Paul’s little 
sensitive nostrils sniffed as the faint odor of violets 
assailed them, but, beautiful as the room was, it 
was not for its inspection that we had intruded there. 

We stood before the closed door, we tried the 
knob, and, daft with curiosity, began to rummage 
about for the key. 

“We are regular Fatimas in Blue Beard’s castle,” 
laughed Phil. 

There was no key anywhere about the room. Nan 
boldly opened the closet, and shouted with glee as 
she took down a key, and, flitting across, tried it in 
the lock. 

“Look out, dear lady, for the blood stains,” 
warned Phil. 

The key turned; we opened the door and en- 
tered. 

We did not see a row of dangling wives, but what 
we did see astonished us as much as if we had. 

The room was a charming nursery, in blue and 


i28 jFour fi©omf)g at (Slencaint 


white. A soft blue carpet covered the floor, with 
rugs matching in color. A high brass fender was 
before the fireplace. Pictures of darling children 
were on the walls. Over the mantlepiece hung a 
portrait of a dear little girl with a puppy in her 
arms. The face seemed familiar. 

“It looks like — like some one. Who is it?” asked 
Nan. 

“Like Paul,” I said. “The eyes are just like his.” 

“Yes, it does,” said Nan, covering the lower part 
of his face and gazing steadily at him, “that’s ex- 
actly who it is like.” 

“I wonder who she is?” said Phil. 

A clock on the mantel was supported by two lit- 
tle bronze figures of children. There were exquis- 
ite vases that would just charm a child. 

“I wonder if Aunt Sarah ever had a little girl,” 
said Nan, in astonishment. 

“I have never heard of any,” I said, “but they 
might, for all we knew of them, way back then.” 

“Now, Nan, don’t you go and ask anybody. 
They’ll know exactly where we have been, if you 
do.” 

“All better mind,” said I. 

On one side of the fireplace were shelves fitted 
up as a doll’s house, and on the other side were 
shelves filled with toys of every description and 
piles of linen books. 

There was a little white bed, a small table, little 
chairs, and a larger rocking chair, a bureau, a ward- 
robe and washstand, all small and white. It was 
the most beautiful room we could imagine. We 
looked at everything, but dared not touch, only 
Nan drew out one of the drawers and we saw piles 
of little white garments, lace trimmed and ruffled, 
that were turning a little yellow. 

On the table was a triple photo frame with three 


jFout gg?ontfrg at ©lettcaittt I29 

pictures, taken at different ages, of the same child, 
whose portrait hung over the mantle. 

There was a Bible and prayer book, besides other 
little books that looked religious, lying on the table, 
and a vase of fresh cut, hot house blooms that made 
the room fragrant. On the table lay a handker- 
chief with Aunt Sarah’s name on it. 

“O, she comes in here to cry,” said Nan, all sym- 
pathy, “and to read her Bible. Of course, she must 
have had that darling child, and it died. Why, that’s 
what makes her cry so much. O, I am so sorry for 
dear Aunt Sarah.” 

And we all were. 

By the bed was a doll’s crib, with the prettiest 
bedclothes and pillows, and in the crib a lovely wax 
baby lay asleep, with its eyes closed. 

‘‘Maybe Aunt Sarah still loves to play with 
dolls,” said Paul. ‘Don’t you reckon that’s it?” 

“No, we don’t,” we shouted. 

“It’s just too nice for anything,” said Nan. “I 
would dearly love to play in this room.” 

“We had better hurry now. Bessie will be com- 
ing down to see what has become of everybody.” 

We had put Bessie’s breakfast on the hearth, 
and covered it over to keep it warm, for the child’s 
sleep was as the sleep of the just — nothing awak- 
ened her but her usual hour for rising. 

So, leaving the room, we locked it again and care- 
fully hung the key back on its nail in the closet 
then we went upstairs. Bessie had not stirred, so 
we left her and went into Miss Alice’s room. 

Christiana and Moisey had been in too much 
haste to be off to do more than the necessary 
straightening of the other rooms, so we did not find 
the same order here as in Aunt Sarah’s room. 

Laces and ribbons were scattered all over the bu- 
reau, and the top drawer looked as if a cyclone had 


i 3 o jFout s@omf)0 at (Slettcaittt 

mixed up things in there. In the confused heap we 
saw the photograph of a young man. 

“O, look here/’ I said. “I bet you anything this 
is the one Miss Alice is going to marry.” 

“What’s that name written on the back?” asked 
Phil. 

“Thomas Keating,” I read. 

“Yes, that’s it. That is the very man,” said Nan. 
“I hear Aunt Sarah and Miss Alice talking about 
Tom.” 

“Yes, it is Dear Tom,” piped Paul. 

“I wish I were engaged,” said Nan. “It must be 
so much fun. Grown people have such a nice time, 
don’t they?” At which we laughed. 

We saw an open letter on the bureau, but we didn’t 
touch it. We drew the line at that. 

“I hear Bessie,” said Nan. “Listen, don’t I?” 

We certainly did; so, going to Nan’s room, we 
found her nearly exhausted with weeping and call- 
ing. The poor little thing had become tired out 
waiting, and was up, trying to dress herself, but 
her hand was still tender, and she was not very 
expert. 

Nan, as usual, lent a helping hand and completed 
the toilet. 

We boys sat down to wait. 

“Do you all know where Bessie has been this 
morning?” asked Paul. 

“No,” we exclaimed, “has she been anywhere?” 

“Why, of course. It’s a riddle. Guess. Where 
has she been?” 

“In bed is the only place I know of,” said Phil. 

“O, I always knew you were ‘kin to the Gram- 
pus.’ You give it up? Why, in Wales.” 

A prolonged groan was our only answer. 

“I — ha-ven’t-t n-o-w, Paul,” whimpered our in- 
jured innocent, 


jfour g 0 onti )0 atN^lettcattit 131 

“And she contemplates returning to that country. 
It is ” 

How much longer Paul would have kept up his 
teasing, I cannot tell, but we heard, just then, the 
door bell ring. 

At first we did not remember that all of the ser- 
vants were away, and it was not until it was rung 
three times, followed by a thundering rap, that Nan 
remarked that one of us had better go down. 

“It might be a tramp,” said Phil. “Let’s all go 
together.” 

So we started, leaving Bessie dancing a hornpipe 
or something to her own music. 

The better to defend ourselves, if it should be 
a tramp, Nan took a broom, I the tongs, Phil the 
shovel, and Paul a riding whip. 

The gong had sounded five times before the pro- 
cession reached the front door. 

Whoever was there was determined to get in, if 
possible. 

We unlocked the door, and there stood, not a 
tramp, but a gentleman, who seemed much amused 
and surprised at our turnout. 

“This is Col. Theydon’s residence, is it not?” he 
inquired in a pleasant voice. 

“Yes,” I said. 

“Will you give this card to Miss Faulkner?” 

I took the card and read “Thomas . Keating.” 

“They are all out hunting this morning, but come 
in. I think they will be at home now, very soon.” 

So, dropping all of our weapons, we took him in 
the sitting room, and drew up a chair before the 
fire, for it was a pretty cold day. 

“And you are left alone, eh?” 

“Yes,” we laughed, “we thought you might be a 
tramp, so we meant to defend ourselves. ,, 


i32 jFour sgJont&s at <©lettcaitn 


He laughed good-humoredly at our great defence, 
then asked something about the hunt. 

“Miss Alice is all right,” said Paul. 

He actually blushed a little at this, for it showed 
so plainly that we knew all about his engagement. 

Nan, feeling that the duties of hostess fell upon 
her shoulders in the absence of Aunt Sarah, and it 
being still very early in the morning, asked if he 
had been to breakfast, and, finding that he had not, 
went off, taking Bessie with her to explain why she 
took her warm breakfast away from her and gave it 
to the stranger. 

Bessie, being at all times a little lady, acquiesced, 
and was satisfied with the cold biscuits and ham 
Nan found for her in the safe. 

Soon Nan came back, bringing the tray with 
breakfast. 

Mr. Keating praised her houswifery, and, being 
hungry, quickly cleared the tray, after which he in- 
sisted upon kissing Nan, by way of thanks. She 
held back, blushing, but the kiss was given for all 
that. 

“That’s all right,” said Paul. “That’s nothing 
but fair. I saw a gentleman, a relative of my sis- 
ter’s, kiss Miss Alice only this morning.” 

“I know that’s not so,” said Mr. Keating quickly; 
but he did look so funny. 

“I give you my word.” 

“Who was it?” 

“I can’t tell you. There might be angry words, 
pistols, and somebody might get hurt,” Paul mur- 
mured mysteriously, screwing up his mischevious 
little face into an important, serious expression. 

‘What foundation has he for this fib ?” the stranger 
asked, turning to us. 

“Couldn’t tell.” 

He looked annoyed, but evidently did not relish 


jFotir e©ont&s at <2>lettcaitn 133 

being teased by children, so arose, whistling, and 
looked out on the lawn. 

We heard the dogs, and knew the hunting party 
was homeward bound. Soon we heard them gal- 
loping towards the house by the back way. 

“Would you like to meet them, Mr. Keating?” 
asked Paul. 

He said he would. 

“Come on, then,” and Paul led him out. 

“This way,” leading him to a little side entry 
towards a door. 

“Just walk in, and presently you will come to a 
door. It opens on the lawn. We are going around 
the back way, and will send Miss Alice to you. It 
is very dark in there, but I guess you can grope 
your way through.” 

So the unsuspecting young man stepped through 
the door, which Paul quickly fastened, leaving the 
stranger to stumble about in a little, narrow closet 
under the stairs. 

The hunting party separated at the back door, 
and the ladies came merrily forward, all blooming 
from their early ride in the fresh air. 

Miss Alice wore the brush, gracefully drooping 
from one side of her hat. 

They had all, evidently, enjoyed the chase im- 
mensely. Even Aunt Sarah was laughing and talk- 
ing like the girls. 

While the gentlemen were making their farewell 
speeches Paul took Miss Alice aside and in a low 
tone asked her to come and see what was in the 
closet under the stairs. 

She came, asking him what it sounded like. 

“Just listen,” said Paul. 

We stood still, and could hear the poor prisoner 
bump, bumping against the walls. 

In great surprise she opened the door, and out 


i34 jFour Q^ontljs at <£>lencai'rtt 


walked Mr. Keating, looking very wrathy and cob- 
webby. 

“Tom!” she exclaimed, throwing up her hands. 
“What does this mean? How did you get in there? 
Where did you come from?” 

He explained, while we giggled joyfully. 

They were just delighted to see one another. 
Then she brushed him off and took him to be in- 
troduced to Aunt Sarah. 

It seemed he had been invited, and told to come 
right out before breakfast; but his letter accepting 
had miscarried and came afterwards. 

They were allowed to have the sitting room to 
themselves pretty much all morning. 

Paul must have annoyed them very much, for he 
took every opportunity for going in there ; he wanted 
a book, he had left his knife, and so on, bringing 
us, each time, bits of information as to how lovers 
behaved themselves. 

Finally we all went in, and blundered upon a little 
discussion about a kiss — that is Mr. Keating was 
mad, but Miss Alice, we saw, had caught on, and 
was teasing him royally. She said Paul had done 
exactly right not to tell. 

After an hour or two the ladies came into the 
room and the conversation became general. 

But Miss Alice’s “Tom” was not distinguishing 
himself ; on the contrary, he looked so absorbed 
and moody that Miss May rallied him and said she 
believed they had been quarreling. 

Miss Alice admitted they had. 

“And now guess what about?” she said. 

No one could think, not even Uncle, who had 
come in just in time to hear Miss May’s remark. 

At last Paul suggested, with one uplifted eye- 
brow, “Was it a kiss?” 

“A kiss,” assented Miss Alice. “You may very 


JFout S©ontj)S at ©lencatrtt 135 

well suggest it, seeing that it was you that betrayed 
me. 

The ladies looked amused, Uncle curious and 
amused, Mr. Keating very much embarrassed, while 
Miss Alice overflowed with teasing fun. 

But Nan’s kind heart could stand it no longer. 
Putting her hand on Paul’s curly head, she put an 
end to the whole thing by saying, “Here is the gen- 
tleman, Mr. Keating, who kissed Miss Alice.” 

At which everybody laughed at Mr. Keating’s 
expense, his laugh now being the heartiest of all. 

At dinner Mr. Keating and Miss Alice and Miss 
May were talking about some one they called Eva. 

Presently one of them spoke of her as Eva Chase. 

“Eva Chase!” we exclaimed. “Eva Chase of At- 
lanta ?” 

“Why, yes,” said Miss Alice. “What do you 
know of her?” 

“Why, she’s Auntie,” said Paul. 

“Their mother’s sister,” explained Uncle. 

“Then these are not your children?” asked Mr. 
Keating, turning to Uncle. 

“No, they are my brother, Philip Theydon’s chil- 
dren.” 

“Why, look here. These must be Cousin Nannie’s 
children. Didn’t you know I am your kinsman? 
Your mother’s own first cousin?” 

“We knew Mother had Keating relatives living in 
Atlanta, but we never once thought of your being 
one of that family. We thought you came from 
New York.” 

“And now I know who it is Harold looks so much 
like,” said Miss Alice. “It has puzzled me ever 
since I first saw him. He is the image of Eva; isn’t 
he, May?” 

“Moderate your transports, young man,” admon- 
ished Phil, patting me on the back. 


136 jFout auontfts: at ©lettcaittt 


“Who is that John Glencoe that Eva met down 
there at your house ?” asked Cousin Tom. “I tell 
you he made an impression on her,” turning to Miss 
Alice. 

“Is she going to marry him?” we shouted. 

“Now I know! Now I know what it was took 
Grandmother home in such a hurry,” I said, light 
breaking in upon me. 

“What will Grandmother do?” sighed poor Nan. 
“Mother would marry poor Father, and if Auntie 
marries poor Cousin John life won’t be worth living 
for her.” 

“She is giving Eva a royal good time this fall. I 
wish you girls had been there last month. Aunt 
Elizabeth certainly tried herself.” 

“To wipe out John,” Uncle drily interposed. 

“Well, she’ll not do it; Eva is in a dream all the 
time,” he replied. 

“Well,” said Uncle, “if she gets John, she’ll get 
an uncommonly fine fellow.” 

“Where did you all meet Auntie? And do you 
know Grandmother?” 

“Aunt Elizabeth! Ah, she’s great!” said Mr. 
Keating. 

“Then perhaps you know the little Rodericks?” 
asked Nan. 

“Of course we do. We spent our last winter’s 
holidays with Eva in Atlanta,” said Miss May. 
“We were chums at college. O, yes, we are ac- 
quainted with all of their friends. Do you know 
the Rodericks?” 

“Their virtues and graces have been chanted to 
us ever since we were born,” I said. 

“By whom?” asked Uncle. 

“By Grandmother,” we answered vehemently. 

“Theodore Roderick !” exclaimed Miss Alice. 
“There never lived a more adorable boy. Such man- 


JFour e©ontl)S at ©lencattn 137 


ners to his mother and sisters! So handsome and 
intelligent! I tell you, had Theodore been a few 
years older Thomas Keating wouldn’t have had a 
shadow of a chance.” 

We were very quiet after that. Could it be pos- 
sible that those Roderick children were really so far 
superior to us. It seemed a reflection on Father. 

We resolved to be more courteous to Nan, and 
our attentions to her for the next few days were so 
overwhelming that she at last asked what it meant, 
and begged us to behave ourselves. 


CHAPTER XV. 


THE RECEPTION. 

Cousin TonTs visit was a source of much pleasure 
to his small relatives. 

Whenever Miss Alice was otherwise engaged, he 
devoted himself to our amusement. 

We took him on all of our favorite walks but one, 
and, being a good shot, we had fine sport, and fur- 
nished Aunt Sarah’s table with not partridges only, 
but with wild turkeys. 

While he was at Glencairn Aunt Sarah gave a re- 
ception, and although we were accounted little nuis- 
ances, we managed to get much amusement from the 
entertainment. 

The weather was unusually warm for October, 
and the young ladies thought an outdoor afternoon 
party would be more enjoyed than a reception. 

Aunt Sarah agreed, though Uncle said while they 
were arranging seats under awnings not to trouble 
themselves to put many for the guests would be only 
too glad to feel the generous rays of the sun by 
evening. 

But the ladies declared it to be an exceedingly 
warm day, and assured Uncle that he was too pro- 
voking. 

“Well,” said Uncle, “you be sure to have good 
blazing fires in all the rooms, for they certainly will 
be needed, and don’t dream of asking people to 
come away out here in the country just for an hour 

138 


jFour 9|ontt)$ at @Ientat'tti 139 

or two in the afternoon, have it a night affair, too,” 
and as he always had his way when he wanted any- 
thing, the ladies gave in. 

“We will have fires in all the rooms in the house, 
Uncle Jim, and the guests can stay just as late as 
they please, but don’t bother us any more now,”, 
said Miss May. 

“O, but, Uncle Jim,” said Miss Alice. “Come’ 
back! What about the bateaux? You will let us 
have them now, surely.” 

We opened our eyes when we saw two beautiful 
little boats that had been kept all these weeks secure 
under lock and key. 

“O, Uncle,” we exclaimed. “We didn’t know you 
had these boats? Why do you lock them up?” 

“For the best reason in the world.” 

“To keep them from us, Uncle?” 

“That’s right.” 

“We would have enjoyed them so much,” I said. 

“Can we go with Cousin Tom?” asked Nan. 

“That depends on the experience Mr. Keating may 
have had upon the water. If he knows anything 
about rowing and swimming, and is willing to take 
you, I have no objection. But now, children, prom- 
ise me that you will not venture in by yourselves.” 

We promised and Uncle walked off. 

And this to us, genuine fish that we were, pad- 
dling, rowing and swimming in the river ever since 
we could remember. 

Grown folks are so queer. 

Wherever we went, they told us to run away. So 
we were forced to , seek our own establishment, being 
not a little miffed that our services had been so little 
appreciated. 

At lunch Uncle wanted to know who was ex- 
pected. 

“All of our friends,” said Miss Alice. 


i 4 o Jfout 90ontJ)0 at ©lencaitn 


“Is ‘My Lord’ coming ?” 

“That he is not ,” snapped Miss May. 

“Who is he?” inquired Cousin Tom. 

“May's very especial friend, Tom,” teased Miss 
Alice. 

Miss May’s upper lip nearly curled over her nose 
with scorn. 

“A clever fellow, too,” said Uncle. “He certainly 
will get on in this world. He has brains enough, 
and brass enough, to carry him through anything.” 

“A perfect gentleman, also, I suppose, Uncle 
Jim?” 

“I don’t know. He does very well, as gentlemen 
go these days. I believe I’ll send a note, asking him 
out, just for the fun of seeing May cut up. What 
do you say, Alice? He won’t mind receiving an in- 
vitation at the eleventh hour, do you think?” 

“Suppose you do, Uncle,” said Miss Alice. “I 
just know he would come. Tell him how sorry you 
are that he was overlooked.” 

Uncle told Nan to run to the library for paper, 
pens and ink. 

The ladies looked aghast. “Uncle Jim, are you 
in earnest?” 

“Why, yes; aren’t you? Well, tell me who you 
expect, any way.” 

“Dian and Peno Rivers and their brothers, Alice, 
Ursula and Jacky Thorpe and their brother; Helen, 
Fay and Mollie Raymond and their brothers; Sibyl 
Mcllvaine and her brothers; Mr. Dorris and Stella, 
Mr. Carter and ” 

“Hold on ; that will do. I know the rest.” 

“And Maj ” 

“I know. I know. Salome and Joan Charlton 
and Lowell, Dr. Springs; in fact, everybody except 
‘My Lord’.” 

“Why, Col. They don, if you had let us know you 


jfour 0 @otttf)s at ©lencatnt 141 

wished him invited so very much, we would have 
been pleased to have extended an invitation to him,” 
said Aunt Sarah. “But why are you so anxious to 
have him here? Political reasons?” Then, glancing 
at him, she exclaimed, “I dare say, if the truth were 
known, you have already given him an invitation 
yourself, and don’t quite know how to break it to 
us. Look at him, girls; I believe he has. Now, 
haven’t you, Jim?” 

Uncle threw back his head and shouted with 
laughter. “I just couldn’t help it, Sarah, really, 
really. The fellow pushed me up to it.” 

“What did he say?” asked Miss Alice. 

“He met me at the bank, and, coming up to me, 
he said, ‘Well, Colonel, I hear you are going to have 
a grand to-do down at your place this afternoon’.” 

“Yes,” I answered carelessly. “I believe there is 
to be some sort of an entertainment there.” Then 
to fill up an awkward pause, I said, ‘I hope I’ll have 
the pleasure of seeing you.’ ‘Thank you,’ he 
promptly said, ‘I haven’t received an invite; but I 
suppose there was some mistake’.” 

“I have a great mind to write him a note telling 
him he was quite right about there being a mistake, 
but it was altogether of his making. He will not be 
expected at Glencairn this afternoon. He will spoil 
everything if he comes,” said Miss May excitedly. 

“Now, now, May ; don’t you know that’s the way 
girls show their interest in a man?” teased Uncle. 

“I despise him,” she said vehemently, and Uncle 
laughed so provokingly that Miss May was about 
to leave the table in wrathy tears when Aunt Sarah 
interposed, “Stop teasing May. You bad boy!” 

Cousin Tom looked tickled to death, and we were 
delighted with the grown people’s behavior. 

After lunch, while the ladies were putting in the 
finishing touches to the rooms, Miss May picked up 


i42 jFout ^ontfjs at ©lettcatm 


Uncle’s old pipe and suggested to Aunt Sarah that 
this would be a good time to throw it away. 

“Not for your life,” Aunt Sarah replied. “Why, 
if it were not for that pipe, I would know Jim’s 
wings were sprouting. Smoking is his one bad 
habit.” 

“Alice !” called Miss May. 

“Who-oo-oo!” answered Miss Alice from another 
room. 

“Aunt Sarah is uneasy about Uncle Jim’s wings.” 

“Tell her to allay her anxious fears; there is no 
danger of their appearing yet.” 

“You saucy girls!” exclaimed Aunt Sarah, half 
provoked ; “do you mean to say you don’t think your 
uncle good?” 

“Just lovely, Aunt Sarah. But no fear of wings,” 
laughed Miss May. 

“Why, Aunt Sarah, he isn’t half as good as Tom; 
now is he, May?” 

“Of course he is,” we interposed, taking up the 
cudgels for Aunt Sarah. “He is just as good as he 
can be; why, he is nearly as good as Father.” 

“Ha! Ha!” laughed Aunt Sarah. “I see there 
is no settling this question. But leave that pipe just 
where it is, May.” 

After a while we went upstairs to rest before ar- 
raying ourselves in our very best. 

Th e company was expected at four. Uncle was 
still laughing over a lawn party in October. 

Miss Alice brought us boys some pretty little but- 
tonhole bouquets. 

Paul did his hair in style, that is, he brushed it 
ah up into a rooster on the top of his head, but, 
being induced to give it a more critical inspection, 
he was persuaded to lower his crest. 

# He surprised Miss Alice and Cousin Tom in a 
little kissing scene within the recess on the upper 


JFotit ggontps at (Slencatrn 143 

hall. Not wishing to embarrass them, he turned his 
head aside, but Miss Alice caught him, as he passed, 
and, hugging him, asked Cousin Tom if he had ever 
seen a dearer little scamp. 

We ran down to the lawn and perched ourselves 
in the background, where we could watch the guests 
arrive. 

We didn’t know many of them except the Rivers. 
We had seen several of them at church, though. 

This was our first reception. We had never seen 
a number of finely dressed ladies before, and we 
thought it a beautiful sight. 

“Aunt Sarah is the Queen of all,” we proudly as- 
serted, “and Miss Alice, Princess Royal ” 

“Yonder he comes, sure!” shouted Paul. 

“Who?” said Miss Dian, who was sitting near 
us, talking to Miss Alice. 

“My Lord,” said Paul ; “don’t you all see him ?” 

“Hush, honey; he’ll hear you,” exclaimed Miss 
Alice in a warning whisper. 

“He’s going right straight to Miss May,” snick- 
ered Paul, hiding his mouth with his hands. 

And, sure enough, he sought her out immediately 
and began talking to her, while we could see she was 
so mad she could scarcely speak. 

What made it all the more provoking was that 
Miss Alice and Miss Dian, with Mr. Rivers and Mr. 
Lowell, were standing just behind her and nearly 
choking to keep themselves from laughing aloud. 

And Miss May knew this. 

We got tired of sitting so still, so got down and 
went to the pond, where the two boats, filled with 
couples, were slowly drifting about. 

We longed so to be with them, but no one noticed 
us, so, finding it too tantalizing, we returned to the 
lawn. 

It turned out pretty much as Uncle had predicted. 


i 44 JFour 0©ontJ)8i at ©lencaim 


Before sunset the company had mostly gathered 
in the warm rooms. 

They all seemed to be enjoying themselves. 

Uncle had the colored string band from Winfield, 
also an old colored man that the gentlemen called 
“Horace Greeley,” who was to pat time and call out 
the figures in the dances. They were stationed at 
the end of the long hall, and the younger guests were 
just getting ready to dance when we came up. 

Then, in the drawing room, the elderly people and 
those who did not care about dancing, were gathered 
in little groups, talking and laughing. 

In the library there were a few couple playing 
cards, and some pretending to be looking at pictures 
and talking very low. 

While in the sitting room the elderly gentlemen 
had congregated to discuss politics. 

Refreshments were served all evening in the din- 
ing room, where any one could stroll in or order 
whatever they wished to be carried to any part of the 
house or lawn. 

We stepped into the dining room and helped our- 
selves, then, going into the side entry, near where 
the musicians were playing, had a private dance. 

“The Fleetfooted Theydons” had been taught to 
trip on the light fantastic toe by their father and 
mother, accounted beautiful dancers in their young 
days. 

There was a harvest moon that night, and the 
dancers promenaded upon the lawn a great deal. 

“My Lord” was everywhere. I wondered if all 
the young ladies felt towards him as Miss May did. 

We children separated after a while, with the 
understanding that if anything occurred that was 
amusing a signal whistle would call the others to 
come and enjoy it. 

The band was fine, and “Horace Greeley's” patting 


JFout ggontSs a t ©lencairn 145 

so inspiring that it alone would have sufficed to 
have kept us awake until midnight. He grew wilder 
and wilder, and was fairly in transports of motion. 

We lost Paul. After searching for him some 
time and asking every one we knew where he was 
Mr. Rivers called us and said, “Here he is. Come 
and look at him.” 

And there he was, dancing with Miss May, of all 
people. 

We were astonished. 

They glided through the figures most gracefully. 

Uncle James and Major Carlisle came out of the 
sitting room and stood watching them. 

They were forming another set at the other end 
of the hall. 

“Come, Miss Nan,” said the Major, “we will 
dance this set,” and he took her off. While we stood 
watching her, Paul came up. 

“Fellows, did you see me dance?” 

“Well, now, didn’t we! How did it happen?” 

“My Lord! My Lord! You see, he came along 
and wanted to dance with Miss May, but she said 
she was engaged. She was, too, to Mr. Charlton; 
but Miss Raymond, who came with him, had to go 
home early, and he was not there when the set was 
formed. ‘My Lord’ looked at her as if he intended 
asking her again, so she just asked me.” 

“Took, you mean, don’t you?” 

“Well, it’s all the same. Pm so glad they taught 
us to dance at home. Miss May says I’m a pretty 
dancer. I believe I’ll go and stand around again. 
Some other lady might prefer me to ‘My Lord’.” 

Shortly after we saw him tripping along with 
Miss Fay Raymond. 

“How did you manage that?” we asked, when he 
came back to us. 

“My Lord, again. Miss May was talking to Miss 


146 jfouc s@ontf)$; at ©lencai'rtt 


Fay, when they saw him coming through the crowd 
towards them. ‘It’s your time, now, Fay. Surely 
he will not ask me again, after the snubbing I gave 
him. Are you engaged for this dance’?” 

“No, but I’m not going to dance with him.” 

“Do as I did. Dance with Paul.” 

“So I had another dance. I wish they would in- 
vite me to all their dances in the town, and have it 
understood among the ladies that I’m ‘My Lord’s’ 
substitute.” 

“What did you talk about, Paul?” I asked. 

Paul stopped to think. “They didn’t talk much; 
I guess they were thinking.” 

“I reckon,” said Phil. 

The company stayed late. It was long after mid- 
night when the last buggy drove off. 

We stood on the piazza and watched them, and 
wished we were going, too, the night was so beau- 
tiful. 

We were nearly asleep, when Nan came rushing 
into our room, barefooted and in her nightgown, 
asking excitedly, “Boys, have you seen Bessie?” 

We hadn’t seen her all evening. 

“Isn’t she in bed, Nan?” 

“Why, of course not, for then I wouldn’t have 
been looking for her. 

We heard her run down stairs and rap at Uncle’s 
door and tell him that Bessie had not come in. 

Uncle sent her back to dress, for fear of her 
taking cold ; then took a lamp and began to look for 
Bessie. 

Then we got up and dressed and went down with 
Nan. 

We looked under every chair and table, into 
every nook and corner, but in vain. We called her, 
but no Bessie answered. 

Aunt Sarah, Miss Alice and Miss May and Cousin 


JFout egotitbs; at ©lettcatot 147 


Tom had all come to help in the search. Uncle roused 
all the servants, but no one knew where she was. 

“Where was she last seen?” Uncle asked. We 
thought. “At the pond,” I gasped. “She went with 
us to see the rowing, and I haven’t seen her since.” 

“She came back with us,” said Nan. 

“No, she didn’t,” said Phil. 

“I don’t remember,” said Paul. 

Uncle turned very pale. He was frightened. He 
hurried out, followed by Cousin Tom, and called the 
colored men to bring torches. He would not let us 
follow. We wandered about the house, feeling too 
miserable and anxious for anything. Nan was stand- 
ing with her arms clasped around one of the pillars 
out on the piazza, sobbing bitterly. She was sure the 
child had fallen into the pond. 

Aunt Sarah was trying to comfort her, but look- 
ing anything but assured herself. Oh ! suppose Bes- 
sie was drowned! I imagined Uncle bringing her 
in, with her wet clothes clinging around her, the 
water dripping from her long curls; those lovely 
eyes closed forever. 

I felt as if I could scream. My conscience told 
me I had not been very kind to my little sister, and 
I restlessly walked up and down the piazza, awaiting 
their return. I thought of the gay music and the 
dancing; it seemed horrible to think that perhaps 
she was lying then dead at the bottom of that water. 

“I can’t help thinking,” said Miss May, “that all 
this excitement is unnecessary. That child has just 
fallen asleep somewhere, and will turn up all right 
to-morrow.” 

“Not if she sleeps on this cold ground,” said Miss 
Alice. 

We saw the glimmer of the torches, and my heart 
began to beat rapidly. 


148 jFcur Qgotttfts at (Slettcaitn 


We shouted as soon as they came in sight, “Found 
her?” 

“No,” they answered; and we all felt somewhat 
relieved. 

“We saw no trace of her. Her hat, at least, would 
have floated. We rowed over the pond, and fol- 
lowed the stream as far as the mill race, but saw 
nothing of it.” 

“She didn’t have on a hat,” wailed Nan. 

He looked dejected again. He went out on the 
lawn to look there once more. 

They searched the gardens. We went upstairs, 
in the garret, and in all of the rooms, and Nan, re- 
membering the story of “Genevra,” opened every 
trunk, drawer and chest in the rooms. But no Bes- 
sie could be found. 

While we were standing out on the cold piazza, 
thinking what next to do, we heard a horse and 
buggy coming rapidly towards the house. Soon the 
glare of the torchlight fell upon a double seated 
buggy, in which sat Mr. Rivers, holding in his arms 
a bundle. 

“Ah!” he shouted. “You missed her. I have 
driven as rapidly as I could, for I knew how anxious 
you would be. I made away with your little girl. 
I didn’t discover it until I got to town. She was 
snugly stowed away under the back seat, fast asleep, 
and made no sound till we jolted over a rail lying 
in the road. It was so late I didn’t like to ask Miss 
Salome to return with me, but took her home first.” 

“I told you so!” triumphantly cried Miss May. 

“Did she cry?” asked Paul. 

“Well, didn’t she!” 

Uncle was the most thankful man you ever saw. 

Aunt Sarah asked Mr. Rivers to spend the night, 
but he said his mother would be anxious if he didn’t 
return, and might rouse the neighborhood. 


jFottt ggontftg at (SHencattn 149 

Aunt Sarah expressed great sympathy with Mrs. 
Rivers. 

Although everything seemed to be moving on all 
right, as far as we could see, there was great politi- 
cal excitement and anxiety under it all, and race 
riots often seemed imminent. 

“Mrs. Theydon thinks if I don’t come home punc- 
tually at six that I have most certainly been waylaid 
and murdered,” laughed Uncle. 

“Well, Mrs. Theydon,” said the young man, with 
great confidence, “in a few weeks we will have this 
government in our own hands, and order will pre- 
vail in this state once more. But I am keeping you 
out in this cold night air.” 

Uncle and Aunt Sarah again thanked him for the 
trouble he had taken so good humoredly. 

Then he drove off, and we all went to bed again. 
Nan undressed Bessie without questioning her. 

Uncle told us to get to sleep as soon as possible. 

We heard Aunt Sarah come up and step into 
Nan’s room to see if all was right. 

I couldn’t sleep. My head was ringing with the 
music, and whenever I dozed off I dreamed that 
they were bringing Bessie in, all dripping, and 
Mother was looking at me with such reproachful 
agony in her eyes. 

It struck four o’clock before I fell sound asleep. 

The next day those bateaux were locked up again 
safe and sound, so that none of us should even have 
the temptation to stray off to the pond. 

I think Uncle would have liked to have had us 
under lock and key, too. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


THE ACCIDENT. 

Everything at Glencairn moves like clockwork, so, 
tired as we were, the usual hour found us gathered 
in the dining room for breakfast. 

All traces of last night’s festivities had disap- 
peared, so well were the servants trained out here. 

Of course the fright Bessie had given us was the 
subject of conversation. 

Miss May was wrathy, and thought she should be 
severely punished. 

Aunt Sarah was silent, leaving Uncle to do as he 
thought best. 

He was kind, and Miss Bessie in pouts, none the 
worse for her midnight ride. 

Miss Alice and Cousin Tom were trying to make 
her tell why she had gone under the buggy seat. 

“To keep warm,” she said. 

“For pity’s sake,” I said. “Why didn’t you come 
into the house, then?” 

“I wanted to see the moonlight.” 

“From under the buggy seat!” we all shouted. 

“Honor Bright, now, Bessie. You were hiding 
from Christiana, were you not?” 

She nodded her curly head. 

“Naughty little girl!” said Uncle. “You gave us 
a terrible fright.” 

“Bessie, we all thought you were drowned,” said 
Paul soberly. “Suppose you had been? She’d have 
150 


jFouc s@ontj)$ at (Slettcatrn 151 


been in heaven to-day, wouldn’t she, Uncle? Would 
you have liked that, Bessie?” 

“N-o-o-o,” she wailed, beginning to cry, for she 
did not relish notice of this kind, “I want to stay 
right here.” 

“Better keep away from the pond, then,” said 
Phil. 

“And not sleep out of doors on cold nights,” said 
Nan. 

Cousin Tom’s visit was up, and he expected to 
leave during the morning. He and Miss Alice were 
going to walk after breakfast, and Miss May said 
we were not to tag along after them. 

About nine o’clock Uncle came out of his room 
in his red shirt. That meant something stirring, 
though he hadn’t much to say about it, because it 
worried Aunt Sarah so. 

When he was leaving, Aunt Sarah walked out on 
the piazza with him. 

After kissing her good-bye, he mounted his spirited 
horse and rode off rapidly, turning once to wave his 
hand at her. 

Her eyes filled with tears, and she looked so mis- 
erable that my heart gave a great thump. 

Suppose, after all, she was right, and his joking 
only a bluff to reassure her. 

Dear, good, handsome Uncle! How kind and pa- 
tient he had been with us. If something should 
happen to him! 

I moved nearer to her and said softly, “Is Uncle 
really in danger. Aunt Sarah?” 

“Yes, he is, Harold,” she answered, drawing me 
closer and laying her cheek against my head. I 
could feel her tremble and one or two tears fell on 
my forehead. 

But in a moment she got control of herself, and. 


iS 2 jFout 0©om&0 at ©Iencairtt 


kissing me for my sympathy, gave me a sad little 
smile and went back into the house. 

Miss Alice and Cousin Tom returned from their 
walk. He made all his pretty speeches in appre- 
ciation of the hospitality extended to him — how he 
had enjoyed his visit and so on — bade us all good- 
bye and took his departure. 

As he was leaving he called out, teasingly, “O, 
Nan; did I understand you to say please give your 
best love to Master Theodore Roderick ?” 

“And ours to Grandmother !” we shouted. 

“I hope to meet you youngsters again on some 
future occasion” — and then he was gone. 

Miss May said that we were more distressed at 
his leaving than Miss Alice. 

“Of course,” we answered. “We are not going to 
marry him.” 

“Well,” said Miss Alice, comforting us, “some of 
these days, you shall all come and pay us a long 
visit in our own home.” 

We opened our eyes with delight. 

“I will be your cousin, then, you know.” 

It was not pleasant out of doors. An east wind 
had sprung up, and the sitting room fire felt very 
comfortable. 

Aunt Sarah was embroidering pretty things for 
Miss Alice, and she and Miss May were occupied in 
the same way. We children were pretending to read, 
and Bessie had her family of dolls in the corner. 

We were very quiet. There was a spirit of gloom 
in the room; reaction, Mother would have called it. 

It was too much for Paul. After trying in vain to 
induce us to join him, he set off by himself to find 
some amusement outside. 

Miss May began to talk about the party, and she 
was so funny we couldn’t help listening to her. 


Jfout g^ontfts at (gUencaittt 153 

Miss Alice noticed how rapidly we turned over 
the pages, and asked us what we were reading. 

I think I had read a paragraph over about twenty 
times without taking in the meaning. 

“They are just listening to us,” said Miss May. 
“I’m watching them.” 

The door flew open violently, and in came Paul, 
forgetting in his excitement to close it, his big gray 
eyes round and troubled with apprehension. 

“What is the matter with you, Paul?” we asked. 

“Aunt Sarah?” he said, going up to her and ac- 
tually putting his hands on her in his excitement, 
“Aunt Sarah, is this so? Ike says that on Election 
Day there’s going to be a fight in Winfield between 
the Radicals and Democrats, and ” 

“Ike doesn’t know what he’s talking about, child,” 
she interrupted, half pushing him away. 

But you might as well try to stop water running 
down hill with your hand as to hush Paul up when 
he has something to say. 

“Well, Ike says ” he began again. 

“Never mind, Paul. We don’t care to hear Ike’s 
conversation repeated.” 

“Well, Miss Alice, Ike says—” 

“O, run away, Paul. Go and play. We all know 
Ike talks a lot of nonsense,” she said. 

“Well, Miss May,” turning to her in desperation. 
“Ike says ” 

“O, botheration, Paul ! Who cares what Ike says.” 

“But just tell me if it is true?” 

“No, it is not true. We can safely make that as- 
sertion.” 

“But you haven’t heard it yet. You don’t know,” 
he persisted. “Some of you all just got to listen to 
me now !” and he stamped his foot with vehemence. 

“Well, do, for peace sake, let him tell us then,” 


i54 Jfour Qgontftg at (glencatttt 

said Miss Alice, laughing. “What is it your oracle 
says?” 

“He says there is going to be a big fight in Win- 
field on Election Day, and that all the colored men 
are going to kill all the white men — they are going 
to take them by surprise — and while all the men 
are fighting, the colored women and children are 
going to kill all the ladies and children, and that 
they have gathered lots of razors and knives and 
hatchets. He says they are going to cut them all to 
pieces. 

“He says he was down at Black Ann’s house last 
night and he heard them talking about it there. 
He says Black Ann has picked you for the one she 
is going to kill, Aunt Sarah, because she does hate 
to see you put on so many airs ” 

“Hush, Paul,” said Aunt Sarah, angrily. “Don’t 
repeat any more of Ike’s impertinence.” 

“And because she wants your clothes,” finished 
Paul. 

“I noticed that woman the other day, Aunt Sarah,” 
said Miss Alice. “I don’t like her at all.” 

“No one does,” she answered. “Ann and her 
husband are both bad and give Colonel Theydon a 
great deal of trouble. He has threatened to send 
them off, and that is why they are so violent.” 

“And Daddy Stephen said,” continued Paul, “that 
Black Ann would have to step over his dead body 
first, then.” 

“I wish I were at home,” said Nan. “I want 
Father.” 

“And I want Mother,” whimpered Bessie. 

“You needn’t be afraid,” we said. “All of us 
have guns here.” 

“Yes,” said Paul, who was greatly disturbed, “I 
will shoot any one dead that comes near this house, 
that I will.” 


JFout agon tfrg at ©lencairn 155 

“I don’t think you will be called upon to make 
Such a display of valor, boys,” said Miss Alice. 

“These colored people are cowards,” said Miss 
May, “and I think Election Day will pass as quietly 
as any other day. Out here, I doubt if we shall 
even hear a shout.” 

“And Ike says Chamberlain shall be governor, and 
he sings all the time ‘Hold the Fort, for Chamber- 
lain’s Coming’,” Paul went on, still troubled. 

“Didn’t your uncle tell you not to play with any 
of the colored children on the plantation?” asked 
Aunt Sarah. 

Paul said nothing, but took a book and sat down. 
He preferred our company just then. 

We all began to work and read once more, but we 
did not feel very gay. 

Bessie had come from the corner and had seated 
herself on the rug within the circle. 

“I do think, girls,” Aunt Sarah said, after we had 
been sitting in silence for some time, “that you ought 
to go home. If your mother knew the state of affairs 
down here, I know she wouldn’t be willing for you 
to remain another day.” 

“Well, don’t let her know, Aunt Sarah, for we 
are not going. If ever there was a time that you 
needed company, it is this fall. 

“Now, if you could go back with us that would be 
another thing; but I know we couldn’t persuade you 
to leave Uncle Jim now, and, besides, here are all 
these children. And, anyway, I am certain that if 
Mamma did know the circumstances, she never 
would consent to your being left alone out here in 
the country, while Uncle is away so much of the 
time and ” 

The door opened, and this time it was Ike, the 
varlet, himself, who thrust his woolly head in, and 
in tones of calm surprise said, “Miss Sarah, you da 


is<5 JFout 90ontf)0 at (SHe ncaittt 

sit here so quiet for sew, w’en dey da bring Marse 
Jeem’s daid body long de big road?” 

We all sprang to our feet. Miss May caught hold 
of Ike, and, shaking him, said, “What do you mean 
by frightening Miss Sarah so? Who told you?” 

“Ben seen dem coming an’ he run dong wid de 
news, Miss May.” 

Every vestige of color left Aunt Sarah’s face. She 
went out on the piazza, we following her. Miss Alice 
put her arm around her, and together they stood, 
both looking down the public road. 

“I don’t believe there is a word of truth in what 
he says, dear. Don’t be so distressed,” she said. 

But Aunt Sarah stood still, watching. 

We boys ran down the road to see if we could 
hear anything. 

Had the fight begun? 

We saw Dr. Rivers coming on horseback, but he 
reached the piazza almost as soon as we did. 

He sprang from his horse, exclaiming, “Don’t 
be alarmed, Mrs. Theydon. Jim begged me to ride 
ahead and tell you of the accident. 

“He was afraid you would be frightened when 
you saw the litter.” 

“Then he is hurt?” asked the ladies faintly. 

“Then he is not dead?” we shouted, greatly re- 
lieved. 

“Why, no, no,” he answered quickly. “But you 
must get his room ready. He is in a pretty bad fix, 
though not seriously injured, I hope.” 

Soon we saw a crowd coming, and we ran to meet 
it. 

Uncle, as white as a sheet, was stretched out on 
the litter. Several of his friends were with him. 

He asked us if Aunt Sarah had been much 
alarmed. 

“Yes,” said Phil. “Ike told her you were dead.” 


jFout e@ontJ)Si at <S 5 lettcatnt 157 


As they came up the piazza steps poor Uncle 
called out gaily, “Well, Sarah, the long looked-for 
has happened at last. You almost got rid of your 
good-for-nothing husband this time.” 

Aunt Sarah smiled with trembling lips, for any 
one could see that he was suffering dreadfully, and 
was just trying to cheer her a little. 

They took him to his room and made him com- 
fortable in bed. 

After a long time Dr. Rivers came to the sitting 
room, where Miss Alice and Miss May were, and, 
after claiming a kiss from all the girls, told them 
how the accident had happened. 

It was a great campaign day in Winfield. There 
were going to be many speeches made by the Re- 
publican Party. Some of their most noted men 
were coming from the capital to speak to them, and 
crowds had been coming into the town since before 
daylight, mostly colored people, who were trying 
their best to bring about a riot. 

Uncle was riding rapidly, and when at the branch, 
just where the road is so rocky and hilly, a crowd 
of men came rushing across the road from out of 
the woods, yelling and cheering, waving a great 
white flag, and his horse became terrified, and, rear- 
ing up suddenly, stumbled over, one of the rocks and 
fell backwards on Uncle’s leg, which was broken. 
He did not think now that Uncle was internally in- 
jured, but he was badly bruised. 

Fortunately, some members of his club came rid- 
ing up just then and carried him on to town to Dr. 
Springs’ office, where his leg was set, splintered and 
bandaged, and a litter made; then some of his good 
friends volunteered to bring him out home, where 
he much desired to be. 

But Dr. Rivers was anxious to get back to town, 


158 JFout 00ottti)0 at ©lettcattn 


■so, after seeing Uncle once more, he rode away in 
haste. 

“How I wish Tom hadn’t left before this hap- 
pened,” said Miss Alice. 

“He would have been a great comfort to Aunt 
Sarah,” Miss May assented. 

“Such a miserable day as we have had. Poor 
Uncle, it is too bad. 

“He will not be a model patient,” laughed Miss 
May. 

“But I know who will be a model nurse.” 

Uncle was under the influence of an anodyne, so 
we had to keep very quiet. Somehow, we were get- 
ting accustomed to that, though. 

We saw neither Uncle nor Aunt Sarah for three 
or four days. Miss Alice was the only one allowed 
in the room. She told Miss May that the “man with 
the sprouting wings” was perfectly awful. He was 
fairly foaming at being a prisoner at such a time. 

He asked the doctor to tell him about the speeches 
and all that had occurred in Winfield on the day of 
his accident. 

So the doctor gave him a detailed account of 
everything, beginning at dawn, when the crazed 
negroes began to gather in hordes awaiting the 
train that would bring the orators of the day. They 
thronged the streets, turbulent, insolent, using in- 
sulting language, thirsting for bloodshed. Then he 
described the quieting effects of the sudden appear- 
ance of “The Red Shirts” upon the scene ; and as he 
went on telling how this mere handful of men had 
intimidated and kept down that immense mob by 
merely walking their muffled shod horses in rigid 
silence all day, from street to street, Uncle began 
to rave, and got more and more rebellious and ob- 
streperous, until the doctor, who had known him 
ever since he was born, gave him a good scolding, 


JFotit £ 0 onti)g at (gleticattn 159 

and told him he would fret himself ill if he didn’t 
control his temper, and to remember Aunt Sarah and 
to behave himself for that reason, if for no other. 

But, though Aunt Sarah looks worn and tired, she 
doesn’t look as anxious as she did. I believe, if the 
truth were known, she prefers having Uncle under 
his own roof these unsettled days, even if it is a 
broken leg that keeps him — anyway till after elec- 
tion — and she knows she could keep him no other 
way. 

Miss Alice said that the doctor’s lecture had done 
Uncle good, and that he was trying to behave him- 
self. 

This was the first time in all his life that he had 
been obliged to keep to his bed. He had been blessed 
with perfect health. 

It was very lonesome in the house without him, 
and we missed dear Aunt Sarah, too. Miss Alice 
took charge of everything for her, and kept an eye 
on us. She must have been a great comfort, for 
she was so cheerful and sweet. She was not as re- 
served as Aunt Sarah, so we didn’t mind hanging 
about her in the least. 

Nan stole in one day to see Uncle when he was 
feeling better, and behaved so well, talking to him 
and petting him, that every day after, if she did not 
come, he would ask, “Where is Nan?” 

He says she is a born nurse, with her pleasant 
voice, light footsteps and sunshiny temper. Then 
she is deft in handling things, too. 

Father says she is going to make a grand woman 
one of these days. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


WE INVESTIGATE. 

One afternoon Dr. Rivers came and paid such a 
very long visit we thought Uncle must be much 
worse. 

After a while Nan, who was in his room, came 
into the sitting room where we were. 

‘‘What is the matter? Is Uncle worse this even- 
ing?” we asked. 

“No, he is much better. But, boys, I wish you 
had been in there. They were talking about Martha 
Lane, in the Glen Hollow Swamps. Dr. Rivers 
told Uncle that the colored man, Craymouth, dropped 
dead in Dr. Springs’ drug store yesterday, and, if it 
is true, as they say, that old Martha got all her 
supplies through him, she will either starve to death 
or be obliged to give herself up to the sheriff. He 
says she must be nearly ninety years old, for all that 
about her killing her husband took place before he 
was born; and when he was a child he and the 
boys of the town used to delight to go to the Swamps 
and bedevil her till she took to shooting across 
promiscuously, and one boy nearly lost his life. 

“But he says her very existence has been forgot- 
ten, and that he had not thought of her for twenty 
years until yesterday. He says the immediate cause 
of old Craymouth’s death was laudanum, but that 
he was in a desperate condition. He was all swollen 
with dropsy, and must have known he couldn’t live 
160 


JFout egontfts at ©lencatrtt 161 


much longer. The wonder is how he ever could have 
walked so far. 

“He must have exerted himself because he knew 
of his condition, and was afraid of dying alone in 
the lonely spot where his house stands, and so came 
to town and put an end to his life. ,, 

We let Nan talk herself out, but the result of this 
news was to fire us up to determine upon another 
long tramp to the Swamps, to see what we could 
find out about Martha Lane ourselves. 

Accordingly, at breakfast next morning, we told 
Miss Alice we were going to play out in the woods 
all day, so not to expect us home to lunch. 

Daddy Stephen supplied us with biscuits, sand- 
wiches and ginger snaps. We hunted up the old 
suits, that Aunt Sarah had made Christiana darn 
and clean, buttoned on our leggings, strapped on 
our hunting belts, took our guns, lunch bags and so 
forth, and started on our tour of investigation. We 
heard Miss Alice say to Miss May, as we passed 
through the hall, “Aren’t they darlings?” to which 
she replied laconically, “They’ll do.” 

We walked briskly. We soon found that curiosity 
must have taken many out in that direction since 
Craymouth’s death. 

We passed crowds in couples and groups, going 
and coming, all taking about Martha Lane and the 
fire. 

We knew the way, for we had lived in the woods 
from babyhood, and never forgot directions and 
landmarks, so we got away from most the men and 
boys into a path known only to ourselves. There 
were no roads then through Uncle’s thick forests. 

But when at last we did reach the Swamps, we 
found several on the spot who had evidently been 
able to find their way through the wilderness. Three 
of the boys we had met at Mt. Jericho were there* 


162 jFour ^ont{)S at ©lettcai'tn 

Fitz, Allie and Pat. They climbed the trees as we 
did and looked beyond the willows. 

The palisade, the hut, everything on the little 
rocky island, was in ashes, smoking still. 

The treacherous sands kept the secret, for no one 
dared to cross over to make an examination. A few 
had gone to the edge, peering through and keeping 
fast hold of the thick, stout canes that grew between 
the willows and the sands. 

The boys had never heard of Martha until yester- 
day. We told them that the negroes on Uncle’s 
plantation called her a witch, and that they said she 
could make herself tall or small, just at will, and 
that we had seen her once as tall as a man, and an- 
other time when she looked no larger than a child of 
five years. 

But the boys laughed at us, and evidently thought 
we were fibbing. 

There was not a thing to be seen, though from 
our perch we looked in every direction. 

The boys all dined at two o’clock, so had to leave, 
as did all the others, their curiosity being gratified. 
We were not sorry when they left, for we wanted 
to do a little investigating on our own part. 

We had not spoken of the fagot pile, and no one 
had noticed it, but had walked right past it. 

After they were all out of sight, we sat down near 
it to rest. The sun shone down on a little open 
space behind it, and it kept off the cold wind. We 
were very still, for we were thinking. We heard a 
slight crackling sound that came from the other 
side of the pile. We jumped to our feet, for if it 
was Martha Lane we had better put our fleetness 
to the test. 

But not a thing could we see. 

We sat down again, and took out our sandwiches 
and began our lunch. We were eating fast, for we 


jFour Q^ontfjs at ©lencattn 163 


were hungry, and not talking, when we heard the 
noise again. 

There was a great deal of underbrush around 
there, and I thought it might be a wild cat. So we 
jumped up again, and I, being taller than the others, 
thought I saw a figure moving through the brush. 

The others noticed that I looked startled, and 
strained their eyes to see, too. 

Just then we all saw the small witch move quickly 
behind a tree. 

With a wild scream, we ran harum scarum away 
from the spot. 

Seeing that she did not follow us, I stopped and 
got up in a tree to see what had become of her. 

There she was, near the spot where we had been 
sitting, lying flat on the ground, face downward. 

I called to the others to stop and listen, but no one 
heard me except Paul — the others had run too far 
ahead. 

But he came back, and we listened. 

A faint cry or wail reached us. It sounded like 
a little child, crying piteously. 

I said, “Paul, are you afraid? Let us go up 
close. ,, 

He rather hesitated, but at last I persuaded him; 
so, picking up a stout stick and leaving our guns, 
we moved in the direction of the sound. 

We advanced so stealthily that we stole nearly 
upon her, when she raised her head, saw us, and 
sprang to her feet. 

She stood one moment looking intently at us, for 
we had stopped walking and were watching to see 
what she would do. 

We neither of us moved for some seconds, but 
restless Paul could not stand that long, and gave 
the stick a twirl. 

This must have frightened her, for with one 


164 jFour agtont&s at ©lettcairtt 


bound she was off into the darkest, thickest part of 
the woods. 

We didn’t know what to do. It was getting late, 
we had no time to follow her even if we felt inclined 
to do so; besides, the others were calling us and 
trying to screw up their courage to come and meet 
us. “What have you been doing?” they exclaimed 
“I never saw such boys. Do you want that old 
witch to kill you?” 

“There isn’t a bit of danger,” said Paul. “She 
hasn’t any gun, and she is just as scared of us as 
she can be.” 

“She ran back into the woods so fast she might 
be a ‘Fleetfooted Theydon’,” said I. “She just ske- 
daddled.” 

“And crying like a baby, too,” said Paul. 

“I can’t make it out,” I said. “We have to go 
home now, but do let’s come again to-morrow.” 

So we turned back. 

At the pasture gate we met Ike, evidently on the 
lookout for us. Uncle had positively forbidden us 
to play with him after his conversation with Paul; 
while Daddy Stephen had thrashed him soundly for 
trying to frighten the ladies, so he was mightily in- 
censed. 

“Harold,” he called, “did you know your ole crane 
done gone?” 

“No, where?” 

“Don’ know. Done bite de string an’ gone.” 

We looked under our house, and the old fellow 
was gone, sure enough ; but it didn’t bite the string, 
it was all there, knot and all. 

We turned to accuse Ike, but he had run off. 
This, no doubt, was his revenge. 

We hoped that “Leonora, My Beloved,” had re- 
turned to her swamps. Our thoughts were too full 
of what we had seen to grieve much over her, 


Jfout 0@ontft0 at ©lencatrn 165 


After tea, when all of the grown people were in 
Uncle’s room, we crouched on the rug before the 
sitting room fire and laid our plans for the next 
day. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


CHILD. 

We got up early next morning, impatient for 
breakfast. If Aunt Sarah had still been absent from 
the table I am not sure that we would have waited 
for it. 

Daddy Stephen put up another lunch for us, not 
sorry that we were going to absent ourselves for 
another day. 

“You are the toughest little mortals I have ever 
seen,” Miss May said, when we announced that we 
were in for another long day in the woods. “Does 
nothing tire you?” which came nearer being a com- 
plimentary speech than any we had ever heard from 
her. 

We ran much of the way in our eagerness to get 
back to the fagot pile. 

Nan and Phil still felt a little timid. They were 
not afraid of the little witch, but they feared the 
old one with her gun might be in hiding. 

I assured them that there was no such thing as a 
witch, and I knew that what we had seen was a 
child. 

“Perhaps she is just trolling us that way,” sug- 
gested Phil, still unconvinced. 

“Well, if you are afraid, Phil, you and Nan can 
stay at home, and Paul and I will go alone.” 

Nan stoutly denied being afraid, so we trudged 
on. 


1 66 


JFour spoMljs at ©lencaint 167 


When we reached the fagot pile we began to whis- 
tle “Mulligan Guards” to attract attention. After 
a while, from behind a large tree, stole the small 
figure, standing where the sunlight made her per- 
fectly distinct. Such a haggard, little old face! 
Was she very, very old, or was she a child? Was 
she black or was she white? We could not tell. 

We were much nearer to her than the last time; 
near enough to see that she was distressed. Her 
face was black or smeared with dirt, and the dress 
she wore made her a most ludicrous little figure. 

Whenever we moved nearer she would run, but 
she would stop whenever we stood still. 

“Maybe she’s hungry,” said I. “Let us try her.” 

So Nan took a sandwich from the bag and held 
it out to her. 

“Come and get it,” we called. Her little face be- 
came eager, but she did not stir. 

“She is hungry,” I said. 

We moved nearer still, holding out the sandwich, 
but she fled into the woods. 

Then we went to the place where she had been 
standing, having lost all fear of her now, and put 
the sandwich upon a fallen tree; then ran back and 
hid to see what she would do. 

We waited so long our patience gave way, and 
we were just getting ready to come out when we 
saw her stealing behind the trees coming towards it. 

“Now be still. Don’t let’s scare her,” I whis- 
pered. 

When she was pretty near she made a dash, and, 
snatching the sandwich, ran back into the woods. 
There she devoured it. 

“Why, she’s swallowing it whole,” said Nan. 
“That ham will kill her.” 

“She must be famished,” I said. 

Nan wouldn’t let us give her any more ham, so 


1 68 jfour 00otttf)S at <S5lencairtt 

we tried putting biscuits on the log several times, 
and each time as she snatched it off she would run 
to the woods to eat it, but we were stealing a march 
on her. While she was intent on getting the fourth 
biscuit Paul and I had stolen round so as to get be- 
hind her, intending to catch her and hold her fast 
until the others came up. And we succeeded, too, 
for she saw nothing but the biscuit in her hand, 
and rushed back almost into our arms. We held her 
firmly and the others ran up. 

We had captured her, but mercy! she fought like 
a fury. She made us think of a mad kitten. She 
bit, she scratched, she fought, she kicked and strug- 
gled to get away, frantic with terror, but we held 
on for dear life. It was the best sport we had ever 
had. 

She was a little child — a white one, too — for Phil 
had moistened his finger in his mouth and rubbed 
her bare knee to find out, and she was not much 
bigger than Bessie, and ever so much thinner. We 
could see that while we clutched her. 

When she found all her efforts to get away were 
unavailing, she began to cry most piteously and 
stopped struggling. 

Indeed, I think her strength gave way and she 
was forced to succumb. 

She kept wailing, “I want my Granny! I ain’t 
got no Granny! I ain’t got no home! I ain’t got 
nobody!” over and over. 

This touched our hearts. While we still held her 
skirts in a tight grasp, Nan tried to quiet her fears 
by talking gently to her. ‘‘Poor little thing,” she 
said. “You’ve got no Granny? And you are so 
little and cold and hungry! Poor little thing!” 

Her tone attracted the child at once. 

She stopped crying to look at Nan. She wouldn’t 
answer any of our questions. 


JFour QOontfts at ©lettcaitn 169 


Such a looking thing as she was ! If she had ever 
had a bath in her life her skin showed no evidence 
of it. And as for her hair! It was frightful! — 
long, black, tangled, frowzy, all matted together in 
almost one solid mass. Her cheeks were hollow and 
her eyes red from weeping. 

But her dress was perhaps the queerest thing 
about her. It must have been her granny's once, 
but the skirt had been cut off and the sleeves also, 
to make it short enough. She had the front of it 
crossed over to the shoulder and pinned with locust 
thorns. It was faded and filthy — and the only gar- 
ment she wore. Her feet were bare and blue with 
cold. 

To glance at her she was not prepossessing in her 
appearance, and yet in a few minutes we found 
there was something about her too cute for anything, 
something in the way she turned her little head and 
looked at us and in her quick, graceful motions. 
We couldn’t help being interested, in spite of that 
mantle of hair. 

Then she was so forlorn and miserable. 

Nan soon won her confidence, and, finding we had 
no intention of harming her, she became perfectly 
quiet and friendly. 

“What is your name?” I asked. But she would 
pay no attention to me. 

“Tell us what’s your name, won’t you?” asked 
Nan, in her most wheedling tones. 

She looked down, but wouldn’t answer. 

“My name is Nan. Now what is yours?” 

She dug a little hole in the soft loam with her 
toe. Presently she looked up at Nan and said 
“Child,” in the sweetest voice, showing a little row 
of even white teeth as she smiled. 

“But what is your real name?” 

“Granny called me Child.” Then, looking over 


i 7 o jfour e@ottti)0 at ©Iettcafrn 


towards the Swamps, the tears began to flow again 
and she sobbed, “I want my Granny! I ain’t got 
no Granny ! I ain’t got no home ! I ain’t got noth- 
ing !” 

We looked at her, and then at one another. We 
had caught her, but what on this green earth were 
we to do with her? Nan tried to console her again. 

“Where did you sleep last night?” 

The child pointed to the fagot pile. 

“Out in these woods all by your little self! Oh, 
you poor little mite!” 

“Had Tay,” she said. 

“Who’s Tay?” asked Paul. 

“My baby,” she said. 

“Where are you going- to sleep to-night?” I asked. 

“Weren’t you scared to death?” asked Phil. 

“Pm going wif you,” she said, answering me. 

“You can’t,” I said. “We can’t take you with 
us.” 

“Let me go wif you; pease, pease,” she pleaded, 
wringing her hands. “I’m ’f’aid to stay out here in 
the dark.” 

She was so frightened at the thought of being 
left alone another night in the woods that her eyes 
had an agonized expression. 

We were at our wit’s end. What were we to do? 
She reached out and clutched Nan’s skirt in her tiny 
hand, exactly as we had held hers. 

“We can’t,” I said. ‘We are not at our own 
home.” 

But she evidently didn’t understand. 

“Aunt Sarah would be too provoked for anything 
if we should bring such a looking child into her 
house,” I said to the others. 

“Aunt Sarah isn’t well, anyhow,” said Paul. “I 
heard Miss Alice say so.” 


JFour 00OM&0 at < 5 Iettcaitn 171 


“No wonder, the way Uncle keeps her hopping,” 
Nan said, sympathetically. 

“If Uncle was all right again, I wouldn’t mind 
going to him about her; but I can’t bother Aunt 
Sarah. So I’m sure I don’t know what to do.” 

“I do, though. I know exactly!” cried Nan, 
springing to her feet, and jumping in transports. 
“We will adopt her for our own truly child.” 

“I don’t want any such looking child as that, thank 
you, ma’am,” interrupted Phil. “Look how black 
she is.” 

“Bless you, Phil, she can be washed. And then 
we can take her to our own little house, and keep her 
there, till Father comes for us ; it will only be about 
five or six weeks now ; and nobody will ever know 
anything about it, for no one ever goes there except 
Ike, and he must be kept away.” 

“He won’t come again,” I said. “He is afraid of 
us now, on account of the crane.” 

“And we can give her our lunch, and she can 
wear Bessie’s clothes — and it will be perfectly 
grand,” and Nan clapped her hands and jumped up 
and down at the delight of owning a real flesh and 
blood doll; one that she could do with just as she 
pleased. 

It seemed right interesting to me, too. Paul and 
Phil were not ecstatic, on account of her rags and 
filth, but Nan assured them she would see to all 
that next day, and they got interested also. 

“Now, look here,” I said, “we will all have to work 
hard for her if we adopt her. For if she is to be 
ours we must clothe her and pay for her food, too, 
even after we go back to Thevdon Hall.” 

“What can we do?” they asked. 

“We will have to think,” I said. “Nan and I 
are going to be Mother and Father, and you can be 
either brothers or uncles.” 


172 JFour ^ontfjs at <g>leiicatm 

“Let’s be uncles, Phil,” said Paul. 

“All right,” he replied, but not enthusiastically. 

“Will the uncles have to work?” 

“Sure,” I said. 

“O, it’s a fine scheme,” said Nan. 

“Then we will have to educate her, too,” I said. 
“We’ll have to work very hard. 

“I think,” Phil laconically replied. 

“I know we can carry it through, though,” said 
Nan. 

The little child did not understand all of this ex- 
actly, but she was pretty certain that she was not to 
be left alone in the woods another night, and was 
comforted. 

We stayed out in the woods till it was dark, so as 
to get her into our house without any one knowing 
it. 

If you only could have seen the small mortal 
trudging along beside us. 

She was tired to death, but so dirty that none of 
us could make up our minds to give her a lift. 

But not a whimper did she make; she just walked 
along, as plucky as anything, till she would stum- 
ble with weariness and fall. 

Her confidence in us was touching — she just gave 
herself completely into our hands. 

When near our house, but still in the shadow of 
the woods, Nan stopped and begged Paul to run 
ahead and borrow a pair of scissors from Miss Alice. 
We imagined what she wanted to do with them, and 
Paul sped away, and soon returned with them. 

“Snip, snip, snap, snip,” and that mat of black 
hair lay on the ground. 

“It would never have done to have taken that into 
our house,” said Nan. 

The child submitted to it without a word, and 
looked much more like a human being. 


JFout QIom&s at ©Icttcatrn 173 

As we walked along we tried to impress her with 
the importance of silence while in the house. She 
must not cry aloud nor make any noise to attract 
attention, “For if you do,” we said, “they will take 
you from us and carry you off to a place where they 
are just as mean to children as they can be.” 

We said all we could to frighten her into obedi- 
ence ; nor did our consciences disturb us in the least, 
for hadn’t we heard Father say he would rather have 
us dead than at the mercies of the State Orphan 
Asylum ? 

She was so sleepy and worn out by the time we 
reached the house, that we were forced to lift her 
and put her in the hammock ourselves. Then we 
covered her up in the rugs and tucked her snugly 
in, and left her for the night. 

Uncle was not well enough to be worried by boys 
yet, so they thought, and as the grown up people 
usually sat in his room after tea, our hours down 
stairs were short. 

After we went to our room Nan ran over, and we 
sat on the rug before the fire making our plans. 

“I have thought what I will do,” I began. “I am 
going to write a little story, telling how we came up 
here, and how we found this child.” 

“O, Harold!” said Nan enthusiastically, “what 
nice things you do think of. It will be splendid! 
And with the money you get I can buy her clothes 
and make them myself; don’t you think I can?” 

“Just as well as Mother can, any way,” said Phil, 
who was still smarting at Grandmother’s and 
Auntie’s amusement over our Dutch pantaloons. 

“And then we can kill partridges and sell them — - 
and walnuts, too,” I said. 

“Do you think Uncle will like that, Harold?” 
Nan asked. 


i74 JFout Months at ©lettcatrn 


We talked until our fire burnt low; then Nan 
skipped off to her room, and we went to bed. 

I could scarcely sleep for thinking of that poor 
little child out there, all alone in our cold, dark 
house. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


FADER AND MODER. 

We got up long before breakfast, and went out to 
see how our charge had spent the night. 

Our early rising would have caused suspicion of 
mischief afoot, if things had been as usual, but Uncle 
was still in his room absorbing the thoughts of 
everybody. 

We found the little child in the hammock, for the 
past two days of hunger and terror had exhausted 
her strength. 

Nan told her to stay there until we came again, 
for she had to bathe her and put on clean clothes. 

There was no way of warming the room, so she 
had to wait until the sun was high enough to shine 
in at our windows. 

“Don’t go left me,” she pleaded. “Take me wif 
you.” 

“We can’t,” said Paul. “If you cry and go on 
Uncle will hear you, and then they’ll put you in that 
Orphan Asylum we told you about, and you won’t 
like that, I tell you.” 

“Please be a good little girl,” I said. “Father and 
Mother are going to do the best they can for you.” 

In the meantime they didn’t have so much as a 
biscuit to give her for breakfast, and it looked as if 
it was going to be difficult to get any for lunch. 

Daddy Stephen had struck. “It is too much 
trouble puttin’ up dat lunch ebery day. Why don’ 
175 


1 76 jFour at <£>lettcatttt 


yer stay home some?” and it was not until after 
much entreaty that we got a rather pitiful supply, 
that is, if it was to suffice for three meals for the 
little child and lunch for four hearty children. But 
Child was not very hungry. 

Nan was full of the bath. She managed to bring 
from the house a pair of shoes and stockings belong- 
ing to Bessie, for although Child was the taller, her 
feet were extremely small and thin. 

She also brought a complete suit of Bessie’s clothes, 
the largest she could find, and one of her own night 
gowns, because, she said, Child could wrap up her 
feet and draw in her hands in that, and so keep 
warmer. 

We borrowed a tub from Maum Suckey, who 
wondered what on earth we were up to now; then 
we filled it with water and put it in the little patch 
of sunshine in our house to heat a little. 

While waiting we tried to induce Child to tell us 
something about her Granny. 

But it started the tears to flowing again. 

“Her was good to me,” she said. 

But little by little we got from her all the informa- 
tion we wanted. 

It was through Craymouth that she got all of her 
supplies, which were exchanged for the chickens and 
eggs that she raised. She told us they had a house 
full of hens. 

What nearly killed us was that they and the 
chickens were under the same roof. 

The hut was divided — one room was where they 
lived, cooked and slept; the other room was the 
fowl house. 

We dared not laugh, for it made her furious, and 
then it took lots of coaxing to get her to tell us any- 
thing more, 


jFout agontfjs at ©lettcattn 1 77 


She talked like a baby, with many Swamp ex- 
pressions thrown in. 

They had all the eggs and chickens they could 
eat. They also raised sweet potatoes in quantities, 
so Granny did not starve her. 

The old woman would put her chickens and eggs 
in a basket and take them over the quicksands, a 
little way down the branch, to a rocky closet hidden 
in the canes, that she had made there. Then Cray- 
mouth, who knew about it, would come, and in ex- 
change put in flour, lard, sugar, coffee and molasses. 
Granny would then return for the basket and bring 
it Ijome. 

But the last time she brought it back there was a 
note in it from Craymouth saying he was sick and 
was sure to die, and that he was never coming 
again. 

Granny did not go to bed all that night, but sat 
up smoking and crouching over the fire. The child 
said she could not sleep either, but lay awake lis- 
tening to the pines “sing” and the owls “cry.” 

Early next morning Granny got up and went into 
the fowl house and drove away every one of the 
chickens. Then she told her to get up. After 
breakfast Granny folded up some food in a paper 
and told her to come along. She picked her up and 
carried her across the sands, clear over beyond the 
willows. 

We said to her, “Why, you knew the way over.” 

“No, I didn’t. I used to come over sometimes, 
but I’d sink most to my waist, and Granny would 
beat me every time she found it out.” 

Then she went on with her story. 

After Granny brought her over, she pinned a pa- 
per on the inside of her dress, and told her to be sure 
not to lose it, but to keep it safe until somebody 


178 JFout S@oMj)Si at ©lencairtt 


came to take care of her, for the Good Lord would 
send some one soon she knew. 

Then Granny said: “Now, stay here. Don’t you 
try to come over them sands again.” 

Then, with one hand on her head, she stood a 
long time “just a thinking.” 

Then she stretched up her other hand and “she 
talked so hard she was just a shaking, talking to 
“Most Holy One,” and she said, “Take this child,” 
and just a lot more, but I done forget it.” 

“Then she lef’ me, and gone back over cross the 
sands, and I ain’t seen my Granny no more.” 

And the poor little thing began to cry again. 

“Did you love your granny?” Paul asked in as- 
tonishment. 

“Her was good to me,” she pathetically said. 

After her Granny left her, she went into the fagot 
pile to play, but after a while she thought how 
queer her granny had been, so crawled out to look 
over at her home. 

It was all on fire! The flames were leaping up, 
and the thick black smoke rolling over the woods 
where she was standing. 

She was frightened, and cried aloud for her 
granny, but she did not answer her. 

That was all she could tell. She knew absolutely 
nothing more. 

She fled to her fagot pile, when the crowd began 
to gather, but after they left and we came, she 
thought, perhaps we were the ones Granny had said 
the Good Lord would send, but she was so afraid 
we might hurt her she ran away. She remembered, 
too, that we had been there before. 

When it began to grow dark she went back to the 
sands, and called and called for Granny, “but she 
didn’t say one word, and I cried and hollered ’cause 
I was f’aid of the dark. Things was in the woods, 


JFout S©ont&si at ©lencatttt 179 


too, and I was f’aid of them, and it got dark and 
Granny wouldn’t say nothing, so I ran back to my 
house and crawled in there.” 

“You poor little thing,” Nan said, compassionately. 

“Did you cry?” asked Phil. 

She shook her head. “I was ’f’aid to cry loud, 
’cause the things might hear me and come.” 

She looked too funny and cute for anything, while 
she was telling us all this, sitting on our table, with 
her feet tucked up under her, we standing around. 

Then she told us that when we came the next day 
and gave her food she felt less afraid of us. 

When we caught her she was terrified at first, and 
she fought her best to get away, but “Her,” meaning 
Nan, “was so sweet” she thought it best to trust her- 
self to her than to spend another frightful night 
alone in the woods, with “things smelling around.” 

“Is you the one the Good Lord sent, that Granny 
told me ’bout?” 

It made us feel very solemn that God had used 
us as His instruments, but we felt sure he had, so 
we told her we were ; and I determined to be such a 
good father to her that she would never cry again 
for her granny. 

“Now, boys, it is time for the bath,” said Nan. 
“Go to the woods and get Uncle’s partridges; he 
won’t like it if you forget him — he takes them as 
tokens of your affection for him, and he asks for 
them every day. 

“But give Maum Suckey one for Child, and an- 
other for herself to pay her for cooking it. 

“When we are ready for you to come back I will 
hang this handkerchief in the window.” 

So we were locked out and went off to do her 
bidding. 

We had time to kill our partridges and to play in 
the pasture before the signal appeared. We came 


180 jFout ^ont&s at <2>Iencatrn 


at once. It was wonderful what Nan had done. A 
charming little girl stood before us. With all of 
that dirt washed from her skin, we found her fair 
with black hair and fine gray eyes with long lashes. 
Her mouth had seemed pretty even in the dirt, be- 
cause her teeth were so white and even and her 
smile so sweet. The hair was quite clean. 

There had evidently been a struggle, for tears 
were still hanging on her lashes, and poor Nan 
looked worn out. 

“Responsibility makes you feel so old, boys,” she 
said gravely, sitting down in a low chair and viewing 
her handiwork. 

“You see, I don’t think that hair has ever had a 
comb passed through it before. It is so thick. It is 
such a pity we had to cut it yesterday — it would 
have been as beautiful as Bessie’s.” 

“Don’ you ever comb it no more,” said Child. “You 
hurt me.” 

“Yes,” said Nan. “Mother is so sorry. But don’t 
you think she looks nice, boys?” 

“Bless me,” cried Phil, slapping his leg with vehe- 
mence, “if she doesn’t look like old Paul.” 

“I bet you she doesn’t, sir,” Paul answered indig- 
nantly, first impressions being very strong with him. 

“Yes, she does, Paul,” said his sister. “I thought 
of it all the time I was dressing her.” 

Bessie’s clothes fitted her remarkably well. They 
were a little short, but all right in the neck and arms. 

She was delighted with the shoes, the first she had 
ever worn that she could remember. 

She was now as docile as any child could be, and 
agreed at once to call us by the names we gave her. 
I soon found they meant nothing to her. She had 
no idea of any relationship beyond Granny and 
Child. 


jFout Q^ontfrs at ©lencaitn 181 


She asked us where was our Granny, and we told 
her far away. 

I asked her if she was hungry, and my ears were 
tickled by the reply, “Yes, Father.” 

Father ran off gayly to the kitchen for the par- 
tridge and returned with it smoking hot, and Child 
enjoyed it hugely, greatly to the delight of the en- 
tire family. 

Everything went on with us very pleasantly for the 
next few days. Daddy Stephen gave us trouble, 
though. He didn't see why, when we were on the 
premises, we did not come to the table where lunch 
was served every day at one o’clock. He didn’t 
mind putting it up for us when we were going to the 
woods to be gone all day, “ ’cause pat’tidge was 
something else,” but when we were at home we 
ought to come in, and he was “goin’ to ax Marse 
Jeems about it.” 

We knew pretty well what “Marse Jeems” would 
say, so we tried bribery. We promised to bring 
him two partridges for his own lunch every time he 
put up one for us. 

The bargain worked well. My conscience, as well 
as my pride, hurt me that we were forced to feed our 
child on the sly from Uncle’s table; until Nan 
straightened it all out by reminding us that we were 
nearly starving ourselves. 

“I’m so hungry sometimes when I go in to dinner 
Fm right glad if Aunt Sarah is not at the table, for 
fear she will think me greedy.” 

“It is a pity,” Paul said in his dry way, “that it is 
not Lent. We would be keeping it so well.”. 

Nan brought Child her own doll to play with, and 
especially to keep her company at night. . She was 
very much pleased with it, but said “I wish I had 
Tay.” 


182 jFout QSJontfjs at ©lettcairtt 


“And who may that be ?” asked Phil, who had for- 
gotten. 

“My beautiful baby,” she sighed. 

“And where is she?” 

“I lef’ her in my house.” 

We promised some time to go for her, also for 
that paper which Granny had given her, and which 
she said was hidden in Maum Suckey’s bucket under 
moss and bark. 

We loved her each day more and more. 

She was so cute and her trust in us wonderful. 

She was more obedient than we had ever been to 
our parents. Never a sound did she make night or 
day. Not a complaint did we hear, and she was 
usually very sweet. 

She did have flashes of temper, but they never 
lasted long. Ridicule she could not stand; it always 
made her cry. 

Nearly every day we gave her an airing in the 
woods. It was great fun getting her beyond ob- 
servation. We managed it by throwing the rugs 
over our heads, allowing them to hang around us, 
and then all together to run for the underbrush, 
where we were sure not to be disturbed. 

Paul was shocked to find she did not know her 
alphabet. Why, Bessie could read, and even Tom 
knew his letters. 

We set about teaching her at once. She learned 
so fast. She never forgot any of her lessons. Nan 
on one side, I on the other, Phil and Paul sprawled 
on the table before her, all busy teaching her and all 
taking an absorbing interest in her improvement. 

We also set to work to correct her Swamp ex- 
pressions, and there, too, she was quick to learn. 

Then, remembering hearing Father say once that 
a child’s education was incomplete, without its having 
been instructed in Infant Classics, we told her the 


jFout sgjombs at < 2 Hencafrtt 183 


stories of all we knew. Phil generally was the narra- 
tor because he has, Auntie says, great dramatic talent. 
He told them so well we ourselves could see Old 
Bluebeard and his dangling wives, poor Fatima and 
Sister Ann, the Giants would come striding into 
the room, and we almost trembled as much as little 
Jack. Red Riding Hood and the wolf pleased her 
the most of all. She had seen foxes and “things” in 
the woods. She liked to get up in my lap when he 
told this story or Beauty and the Beast. He acted it 
so well that sometimes, when he was particularly 
thrilling, she would turn and take my face between 
her hands with a quick little motion and cry out ex- 
citedly, “O, Fader, make him go away,” but always 
wanted him back again if I sent him off. 

She liked Cinderella, too. I think she thought her- 
self very much like the poor little neglected maid. 
She told us when she woke up at night she thought 
of all the pretty things Phil told her; but she was 
afraid of the Giants, the Wolf and the Beast. 

It worried us to have her all alone out there at 
night; but we did not know how else to manage. 

To have a real live flesh and blood doll is the 
finest thing in the world. 

Uncle was getting better now, and could walk a 
little on his crutches. 

But Election Hay came and he was still confined 
to his room. Early in the morning we could hear 
the noisy crowds tearing by on the public road 
shouting for “Chamberlain.” Ike told us that as 
many as “two thousand or six hundred” had passed 
before breakfast. 

From the side piazza we could see them riding in 
no sort of order, mounted on horses, mules and even 
oxen, hurrahing and shouting, carrying banners 
made of white cloth, with the name of Chamberlain 
stained on them with red ink or poke berries. 


184 JFour #onti)S at ©lencaint 


We were forbidden to leave the yard. Phil, meet- 
ing Ike in the yard, could not resist from sending a 
message by him to Black Ann. “Go and tell her,” 
he said, “I dare her to come up here, and do what 
she threatened, and she’ll find that instead of diking 
herself up in all of Aunt Sarah’s fine clothes, she 
will be going flippity flop all the days of her life.” 

The whole day passed quietly, and though there 
was great anxiety, there was no disturbance, as Miss 
May prognosticated. 

The sun set upon as peaceful a day as we had ever 
spent. We had loaded all of the guns, and were a 
little disappointed to be told to go out after dark 
and discharge them, without once having an oppor- 
tunity of showing them how valiantly we could fight 
if called upon to do so. 

Uncle was completely worp out by fuming before 
the day was half over. The ladies were quite as 
much fatigued with anxiety and with him, so we all 
retired at an early hour, thankful that we were still 
alive, or at least Aunt Sarah was. 


♦ 


CHAPTER XX. 
paui/s lark. 

I wrote on my story every day, giving all the time 
I could spare from Child’s lessons and our partridge 
hunt for Uncle and for her. 

The others were deeply interested, giving me much 
advice, some of which I took. 

Bessie did not love to be in the cold, so bothered 
us not at all. 

Her family of dolls increased every time any one 
went to town, and Miss May, who was very fond of 
Bessie, put in much of her idle time making pretty 
clothes for them. 

One morning about a week after we had brought 
Child to our house Paul was missing. We called 
and hunted everywhere. 

We did not give the alarm, for Paul knows pretty 
well how to take care of himself. We thought per- 
haps he had gone to town with Dick. 

We were reading, when Moisey called to us that 
a little colored girl was at the house wanting to 
spe^k to us. We locked Child in and ran to see 
what she wanted. 

She was an impudent little piece, with a basket 
on her arm. She asked us why we had taken the 
walnuts she had piled up under their trees. Her 
daddy had sent her to tell us we had to give them 
back or pay for them. It had taken the entire fam- 
ily two days to gather them. 


1 86 jFour Sgomfcs; at <©lettcairtt 


Were we not mad, though ! We had taken no wal- 
nuts, except those that Paul had knocked down and 
hulled, and we were sure we had gathered them 
from Uncle’s trees only. 

She got mad, too, and threatened, if we did not 
give back the nuts or pay for them, to tell the white 
folks that we had a child hidden in that house in the 
woods. 

This rather startled us. The girl seemed so ma- 
licious. She meant to get the nuts or betray our 
secret. 

We consulted, then I said, “Well, we will give you 
one bag if you won’t tell about the child. But they 
are not your nuts, and you know it.” 

“Gim me two!” she demanded. 

“We haven’t any more,” I told her. “The other 
bag belongs to my brother and he isn’t here.” 

“Well, gim me dat one, den, an’ I come back for 
de oder one soon.” 

So Phil got the bag and gave it to the darkey. 

We were very much put out. As Paul was still 
missing we prepared to go out and search for him, 
for we were getting just a little uneasy. His hat 
was on the rack, so we knew he couldn’t be very far 
off, but there was no finding him. 

Lunch was served, and still he had not turned 
up. No one had seen him and though we thought it 
queer we did not like to bother Uncle about it. Aunt 
Sarah had her lunch in his room and the young 
ladies were in Winfield. 

After lunch we went to our house and stood talk- 
ing at the door. 

Nan suddenly exclaimed, “There comes that hate- 
ful little darkey who got our nuts this morning, com- 
ing right down through the privet lane. What does 
she want? Just look at her, Harold!” 

Flying down the lane came the little figure, clad in 


4Fout coombs at < 55 lenca{ttt 187 


the same long blue checked homespun dress and a 
long bonnet of the same material, with an empty 
basket swinging on her arm, coming straight to our 
house. We went in and locked the door. 

“What do you think she wants? She is going to 
peep,” said Phil. 

Before we had time to answer she was pounding 
at the door. 

“Open the door, Harold. Hurry! Hurry!” 

It was Paul’s voice. 

“Listen!” said Nan. 

“Hurry up, fellows. I want to get in.” 

We rushed to the door and opened it. In came the 
little blue girl, who, throwing her bonnet on the 
floor, disclosed to our wondering eyes no one else 
but little Paul, as brown as walnut juice could make 
him. 

“O, such a lark ! Such a lark !” he gasped, whisk- 
ing about the room screaming with laughter. “And 
you didn’t recognize me this morning. And weren’t 
you mad, though!” 

“I declare, Paul, you are the funniest little chap 
that ever lived. Where did you get that dress and 
bonnet?” I asked. 

“You were so scared this morning I could hardly 
keep from laughing. Look here, I got fifty cents 
for those nuts. There were two pecks. If some one 
hadn’t given rpe a lift I think I w r ould have dropped 
in the road.” 

“How are you going to get that stain off your 
face?” asked Nan. Tt will never wash off, Paul.” 

“I don’t want it to come off until I am through 
selling all of the nuts. I’ve got more engaged.” 

“Who bought them?” asked Phil. 

“Miss Mollie Raymond. She was at the party. 
Don’t you remember her? She wants some more 
next week.” 


1 88 jFout at ©lencatttt 


“But where did you get the dress?” I asked. 

“Miss Alice made it for me. She bought it with 
the money that Uncle gave me when I was sick, 
and made it for me herself. I begged her to keep it 
a secret.” 

“Suppose Uncle had seen you?” 

“He did see me this morning when I was out in 
the yard. He came to the window and I said, “How 
d’ye do, Marse Jeemes,’ and he said, 'Good morn- 
ing/ And Miss Alice saw me, too. She and Miss 
May and Miss Dian and Miss Peno went down to the 
Fair this morning. I wanted Miss Alice to see me, 
so I was on the platform when the train came in. 
Just the same crowd was there, Harold, and they 
were all talking to Miss Alice. 

“I couldn’t get near her till the cars started. Then 
I walked out to the edge of the platform where no- 
body was standing and threw a kiss to her. She 
didn’t know me at first, then she recognized the dress 
and laughed, leaned out of the window, waved her 
handkerchief and threw this rose to me,” and Paul 
showed a beautiful Cloth of Gold. 

“All of the gentlemen rushed for it, but I was be- 
fore them, and, picking it up, I was over the fence 
into somebody’s garden in a hurry. The men were so 
mad they called me ‘little rascal’ and ‘little hussy.’ 

“I am going to put it in my Bible and keep it all 
the days of my life,” he finished up sentimentally. 

While we were talking he was slipping out of his 
dress. “I will hang it out here,” he said, “to keep it 
from Christiana. 

“Here is the fifty cents. Nan.” 

We were trying to get money to buy Child some 
shoes, for Christiana had accused Moisey, who had 
a child the same age, of having stolen Bessie’s shoes. 
This made us feel very badly. She had missed the 
clothes, too, and was threatening to tell Aunt Sarah, 


jFour agjom&s at ©lencatttt 189 


while poor Moisey was protesting she had never laid 
hands on them. 

“Paul,” Aunt Sarah exclaimed at tea, “my child, 
what have you been doing?” 

“It’s nothing, Aunt Sarah. Only walnut stain.” 

“Then you can’t wash it off. What did you put it 
on for?” 

“Just for fun, Aunt Sarah.” 

“What would your Uncle say?” 

And he had his say, for he got tired of staying 
in his room and came out the next day. He seemed 
pleased to see us again, but when he saw Paul he was 
simply disgusted with him, telling him he was 
ashamed to have such a looking child sitting at the 
table with him, and half threatening to make him 
take his meals in the pantry until he cleared off. 

Paul almost choked with mortification and laugh- 
ter at having Uncle talk so crossly to him, but Uncle 
had been right badly spoiled these last days and we 
excused him. 

Nan was afraid to take any more of Bessie’s 
clothes, so had to wash out the suit Child had on 
when she needed a change. 

She was afraid Aunt Sarah might dismiss Moisey 
if Christiana complained to her about the missing 
garments. 

Nan began to look very serious. 

“I really don’): see how mothers stand it, boys, 
when they have more than one child. I mean to help 
Mother all I can when we go home again, for it’s 
dreadful hard work to worry with children.” 

She, however, never shirked her duties. Never 
once did she fail to tuck her child snugly in the ham- 
mock at night, after hearing her say “Now I lay 
me,” and she was always on hand to freshen her up 
in the morning as well as she could with her very 
limited conveniences. 


i9o jFour €©ontl)0 at <£>lettcai r tn 


She drew our attention to Child’s appearance. She 
had been shut up in the house now for three weeks, 
never once having seen a fire in all that time, and 
fed very irregularly on food, sometimes such as we 
knew Aunt Sarah would never have allowed Bes- 
sie to eat. 

She was perfectly colorless now, and her eyes 
looked like great stars. Nan’s constant care was seen 
in the soft- wavy hair; and in our eyes she had be- 
come perfectly beautiful. But she was losing her 
spirits. She longed to go with us to the big house 
where we went every night. We talked at length of 
our lovely Granny, who was some day coming to 
take her away with us. 

Each morning she would ask if this was the day 
we expected her. 

She had taken a very bad cold when Nan had 
been obliged to put back on her the half dried clothes 
she had washed, for they kept freezing and would 
not dry. 

“O, boys,” Nan said to us, “if anything should 
happen to her, it would break my heart.” 

Paul had been to town again in his disguise sell- 
ing walnuts, and this time he brought oranges to 
tempt her appetite because she hadn’t eaten much 
for days. 


CHAPTER XXI. 


SUSPENSE. 

The next day I will never forget. When we got 
up there was a zigzag of white dancing before the 
windows. 

“What’s going on ?” I said. “This must be snow !” 

We had never seen it before. We stood at the 
window fascinated, for several minutes; then Phil 
ran to the door and, opening it, shouted, “Snow, 
Nan !” 

We heard her scream with delight, and in a few 
minutes she had put on clothes and was enjoying 
the sight from our window. 

Soon the big flakes became smaller and the air 
thick with flying particles, while every now and 
then a dash of sleet would rattle against the win- 
dows. 

It was awfully cold ! Ike came up and made us a 
roaring fire. He was not ecstatic over the snow. It 
was no novelty to him. He had his legs and feet en- 
cased in crocus sacks strapped around with strips 
of cloth. 

After breakfast) our first thought was Child. We 
put on our coats and rubbers and went over to the 
house. 

She was sitting up in the hammock crying with 
the cold. She had the old stiff rug wrapped around 
her little shoulders. 

Her eyes were bright, and she coughed incessantly, 


192 jFour sgtontfrs at (glencaittt 

and cried out with a pain which caught her breath 
when she coughed. Her cheeks were flushed and she 
breathed fast and short. 

We had sense enough to know that she was very 
ill, but we were selfish enough to hesitate to go to 
Uncle about it, because we knew he would not. let us 
keep her ; then, besides, we felt that Uncle and Aunt 
Sarah had been troubled enough lately and we did 
not wish to bother them with our affairs. 

So we tried to doctor her ourselves. Nan sent me 
for a bottle of vaseline that was in her room, and we 
put a thick coating of it upon her side and chest. 

It was so cold it set her shivering after we applied 
it. Nan took her in her arms under her coat and 
tried to warm her. We took turns about rocking her 
and trying to soothe her. 

We spent the whole morning till lunch time out 
there, too miserable to enjoy the snow, which by 
this time was four inches deep on the ground. 

Child refused everything we had to give her to 
eat. We saw she was steadily growing worse, but 
kept hoping she would be better by and by. 

She got very drowsy before lunch, and we were 
glad, for if she slept we didn’t mind so much leaving 
her out there alone. 

We covered her up and she didn’t know when we 
left her. 

After lunch Miss Alice and Miss May insisted 
upon initiating us in a game of snowballing. We 
couldn’t help enjoying it in spite of our heavy hearts. 
Every now and then one of us would slip away to 
the house to report upon Child’s condition, and it was 
always “Asleep.” So we played until it was time to 
dress for dinner. 

The sun set clear, and the wind, freshening up 
from the northwest, blew a perfect blizzard. It 
found entrance under doors and around window cas- 


jftmt gjontfig at (glencaittt 193 

ings, making that side of the house chilly in spite of 
the roaring fires. 

Uncle was around the house and yard again on his 
crutches, and had become his dear old jolly self 
once more. 

He ate snow and cream and sugar with us, and 
enjoyed it as much as we did. 

It was perfectly dark now at six in the afternoon. 
So after dinner the lamps were lighted in the sitting 
room and all of the grown people were in there pre- 
pared to have a grand old time. 

Uncle told Aunt Sarah to let Daddy Stephen go, 
for he would be miserable until he got his head under 
cover. 

Instead of tea, he proposed having an egg nog and 
cake, nuts and fruits in the sitting room. So we 
helped them bring in the big punch bowl, the eggs, 
sugar, whiskey and egg whips, cake and fruit and 
nuts. 

Then Uncle brought out a big box of candy that 
he had brought from town, also a new novel to read 
aloud to the ladies while they embroidered. He 
piled on the wood and Miss Alice arranged the cur- 
tains to shut out all breezes. There was solid com- 
fort in that room, in sharp contrast to the biting cold 
outside. 

We would have been so happy if we could only 
have had dear little Child in here with us. 

We had found in the garret an old game Uncle 
had when he was a boy — the Mansion of Happiness — 
and we intended to play this and listen to the story. 
But first we meant to go to our house and see once 
more how things were in there. 

Uncle had lighted his pipe and settled himself back 
to indulge in his usual after dinner smoke before be- 
ginning to read. 

We slipped out, and as they never kept as strict 


i94 jFotir auomfjs at ©lettcafrtt 


an oversight of us here as they did at home, we 
walked out of the back door and sped away to our 
house in the woods. 

I had never dreamed it could be so cold. The 
wind cut like a knife. 

I had secured a pocket full of matches. We could 
easily find our way there by the starlight on the 
snow, but we had some difficulty in getting up the 
steps, which were steep and without railings and 
slippery with the frozen snow. The door stuck, but 
finally, with our united efforts, we burst it open. 

‘Child/’ we called, “are you asleep?” 

But there was no answer. 

I struck a match, and was horrified at the marble 
pallor of her face. I lifted her hand and it was as 
cold as the snow outside and fell limp when I 
dropped it. 

“Darling,” sobbed Nan. “Darling, why don’t you 
speak to Moder?” 

“Is she dead, Harold?” they all asked, beginning 
to cry, too. 

I leaned over her and shook and called her, but I 
could not rouse her. 

“Oh !” I said, bursting into tears myself. “We have 
waited too long! O, why didn’t I tell Uncle about 
her this morning? We have just let her die.” 

Then in terror we rushed back to the house an- 1 
burst into the sitting room, bringing all of the out- 
doors with us in snow and cold air. 

“Oh! Oh! Oh!” exclaimed Uncle. “Shut that 
door! Shut that door!” 

“Oh, children,” said the ladies, “Do look at your 
shoes ! Don’t bring all that snow in here !” 

“Where have you been? 1 

“What is the matter?” 

But, taking no notice of them, we fell upon Uncle- 


jFout at ©lencatnt 195 


“Oh, come ! Do come ! She’s dead ! She’s dead !” 
we cried. 

We were wringing our hands, too genuinely dis- 
tressed not to impress them with the fact that some- 
thing unusual had taken place. 

“What in the world are you talking about?” Uncle 
asked, not much pleased at being disturbed. “Who is 
dead ?” 

“Our child, our own darling child!” we sobbed. 

“Are you acting, or are you crazy?’ he said, still 
puffing at his beloved pipe. 

“O, Uncle, she may not be quite dead. Do please 
come !” 

“I don’t understand what you are talking about. 
Where is this child of yours, and who is she ?” 

“In our house, Uncle. Won’t you come?” 

“Where did you get her?” 

“Oh, dear me! She will die! Out in the woods, 
Uncle.” 

“A true, live child?” asked Miss Alice. 

“Oh, Uncle, do come at once,” we pleaded. 

“Colonel Theydon, don’t go out in the snow. You 
know those crutches will slip and you will fall,” said 
Aunt Sarah. 

“How long have you had this child?” asked Uncle, 
still loth to move. 

“Where did you find her?” they all asked. 

“About four weeks ago and in the woods,” we an- 
swered in despair. 

Then, laying down his beloved pipe, Uncle ex- 
claimed, “Children, I am not surprised that your 
father had nervous prostration.” 

“Come this minute!” exclaimed Paul in stern 
tones, his eyes blazing with sudden anger, stamping 
his foot in wrath. 

It had the desired effect. Uncle rose, and, send- 
ing me for Daddy Stephen, threw his overcoat over 


196 jFout Qgjontl )0 at (Slencaittt 


his shoulders, took his crutches, and, followed by all 
of the ladies, went out. 

Aunt Sarah would not allow Paul and Nan to go 
back again. 

I carried the lamp, and Uncle, Phil and Daddy 
Stephen followed behind. 

We left Aunt Sarah still standing on the piazza, 
anxiously watching Uncle lest he should slip on the 
snow. 

As we went in our house the wind blew the light 
out, but Daddy Stephen had seen where the ham- 
mock lay, and, going to it, lifted the child, all wrapped 
up in the rug, and brought her out, saying to Uncle, 
“She daid, sir.” 

Uncle asked many questions as we walked back 
about her. I told him she was Martha Lane’s grand- 
child. Daddy Stephen nearly dropped her when he 
heard that. “Tis witch,” I heard him say under his 
breath, as he quickened his steps. 

Uncle had her brought to the sitting room and laid 
on the davenport. He felt her pulse and glanced at 
her, evidently at a loss to know what was to be 
done. 

He went back to the piazza to stamp and brush the 
snow from his shoes. 

After he left Aunt Sarah walked across the room 
to look at the child. 

As she drew back the rug she gave a quick start, 
then dropped upon her knees and looked intently at 
her. 

God knows I will never forget the cry Aunt Sarah 
gave. 

We all jumped to our feet and hurried to her. 
Uncle heard her in the piazza, and came flying back 
on his crutches, exclaiming, “Sarah, my darling, what 
is the matter?” 

“She has fainted, Uncle,” said Miss Alice in alarm. 


jFour Sgontfcs at ©lencattn 197 


She had, and Uncle moved then. He called up 
Dick, had him harness the closed carriage and drive 
like Jehu for Dr. Rivers. 

Christiana and Moisey came running down stairs, 
and among them all Aunt Sarah was taken to her 
room, and we were left alone with our little dead 
child. 

Nan knelt by her, and as her tears fell upon her 
face she gave a little moan. 

“Oh, Harold ! Harold ! she is not dead !” Nan cried. 

We ran to her and together hung over her, rubbing 
her little cold hands, and wondering about Aunt 
Sarah. We could hear quick footsteps and voices, 
but no one thought of us nor the child. 

After waiting all night, it seemed to us, Dr. Riv- 
ers came. 

Uncle hurried him to Aunt Sarah’s room, and 
then, long, long after, came into the sitting room 
and without answering any of our questions, picked 
up Child and carried her away 

There we sat on the hearth rug, talking and nod- 
ding until after midnight, when Miss Alice came into 
the room. 

“Bless your little hearts! Are you still up? Oh, 
you darlings! To think that you have found her!” 

“What does it all mean, Miss Alice? Is Aunt 
Sarah very ill?” 

“She is better now. It was the shock. Oh, to 
thing of Helen’s being found! You darlings!” and 
she hugged us excitedly. 

“Who is Helen?” we asked. 

“Who is Helen! Do you mean to say you have 
never heard of her? Uncle Jim’s and Aunt Sarah’s 
only child ! Oh, I remember now. Aunt Sarah was 
ignored in those days.” 

“Oh, please, Miss Alice, don’t refer to that,” we 


198 Jfout ggont&g at (Slencairtt 

said, blushing at the recollection of that nonsense. 
“But do tell us about her.” 

“Oh, it was dreadful. Dear Aunt Sarah nearly 
lost her mind. She was just beginning to be a little 
like her old self.” 

“What did she nearly lose her mind about ?” asked 
Phil. 

“Why, the child was stolen.” 

We were wide awake now. We crowded around 
her. 

“It is nearly four and a half years ago now, and 
in all that time not one clue could they find to her 
mysterious disappearance. Grandpapa and Uncle 
Jim have spent a fortune advertising and employing 
detectives.” 

“And here she was at his door all of that time,” I 
exclaimed. 

“Old Martha Lane must have stolen her,” said 
Phil. 

“No; because it was from Grandpapa’s summer 
home in New York that she was taken. Susan, the 
colored woman Aunt Sarah brought on with her, as 
her nurse, disappeared, too, and ” 

“Oh, Miss Alice, do you think she will die?” inter- 
rupted Nan. “God surely would not take her from 
them now. Don’t you think He will let her live, Miss 
Alice?” 

“Ah,” she said sadly, “that is what grieves us so. 
Dr. Rivers gives Uncle no encouragement at all. He 
says she has scarcely a spark of vitality left in her 
little body.” 

“Oh, if we had only brought her to Uncle when 
we found her,” I said remorsefully. 

“Ah, if you only had, dear boy.” 

“She isn’t going to die,” said Paul decidedly. 

“How can Aunt Sarah be so sure, Miss Alice?” 
asked Phil. 


JFour Months at (Slen caittt 199 

“She hasn’t changed so very much in these years. 
I think I would have known her. Then she roused 
from her stupor a few minutes ago, and Uncle Jim 
leaned over and asked her if she didn’t remember 
Papa, and, as if the name had awakened some mem- 
ory, she immediately murmured ‘Sweetheart,” that is 
what she used to call Aunt Sarah. She picked it up 
from Uncle Jim. 

“Then Dr. Rivers pointed out the scar on her 
throat where he operated on her windpipe to re- 
move a watermelon seed that she had swallowed. 
That happened the summer before she was stolen. 
She did not get her strength back and Aunt Sarah 
brought her to us for a change. She was the dearest 
little thing and we were perfectly delighted with her.” 

“I can well believe that,” I said. 

“The change benefited her greatly, and she was im- 
proving right along, when one morning Susan took 
her out for a walk and did not return. Search was 
made and everything possible done to recover her 
or to find out what had become of her, but until to- 
night it has remained a mystery. And even now I 
can’t imagine how Martha Lane got hold of her.” 

We couldn’t enlighten her. 

“It certainly is wonderful,” I said. 

“I am so glad for dear Aunt Sarah,” said Nan 
earnestly. 

“Have you children had any tea ?” Then, on hear- 
ing that we had not, she said, “Come into the dining 
room with me and get a glass of warm milk and 
some crackers. I am going to make coffee for Dr. 
Rivers and Uncle. They will not go to bed to-night. 
Step softly.” 

After we finished our light supper she sent us off 
to bed, coming up herself a half hour later to see if 
we were warm enough, for the fires in our rooms had 
died down hours before. 


200 jfout 6 ©ontj)S at ©lencattit 


Oh, the scene from our bedroom window next 
morning! The sun was shining in a clear blue sky. 
Everything was beautiful in its soft covering of 
snow. Diamonds hung from twig and leaf. It was 
fairyland. 

Never had we looked upon a more brilliant sight ! 
It was simply superb ! 

We almost shouted, but remembered just in time. 

When we came down to breakfast Uncle was alone 
in the dining room. He looked restless, excited and 
anxious to a degree. 

His hair was more disordered than I had ever 
seen it. He evidently had been up all night. 

“How are they this morning, Uncle?” we asked. 

He shook his head sadly, then went to the window 
and stood with his back turned to us. 

Miss Alice came in then, and, going up to him, 
she slipped her hand in his arm and said, “Uncle, you 
look completely worn out. Do try to eat something, 
or at least take a cup of coffee, and then lie down for 
a little while. Remember, you are not quite strong 
yet.” 

He turned his haggard face towards her and said, 
“You are a dear, good girl, Alice. You can never 
know what a comfort you have been to us these last 
few weeks. But, dear, I cannot eat. I am too miser- 
able. If the child dies, and I do not see how she can 
possibly live, it will kill her mother, it will certainly 
kill her. I am frightened at the expression of her 
face ; it is tense. God’s ways are past finding out.” 

“Uncle, you must take a cup of coffee, then you 
will feel stronger and more hopeful. Sit down and 
let me pour it out for you.” 

He did so and she brought him the cup. He wanted 
to swallow it at a gulp, but she wouldn’t allow him. 
She stood by him smoothing down his rough hair. 
“Dear Uncle Jim,” she said, “don’t give up hope. I 


jFout 90 omf)S at ©lettcattn 201 


can’t think little Helen would have been restored to 
you only to be taken away again. God could not be 
so cruel. I believe she will live.” 

“I do, too,” said Paul. 

The memory of when Uncle came to us in the old 
schoolroom at Theydon Hall, and put new spirit in 
us, was stirring in his mind. 

When Uncle left the room he promised to lie down 
for a while. 

We were very unhappy. Just at first, we exulted 
in the thought that we had found the lost child of 
this uncle and aunt whom we had learned to love so 
dearly ; but now we felt like culprits. We had caused 
her death — instead of bringing joy, we had brought 
sorrow to them. We, too, had no appetites for break- 
fast. 

Then Dr. Rivers came in. Miss Alice asked about 
the patients, but she got no answers. Any one could 
see, however, that the doctor was not very jubilant 
over them. There was neither joking nor kissing as 
was usual with him. He ate his breakfast in silence. 
Miss May came in, and as she took her seat Phil re- 
marked with his customary bluntness “Uncle thinks 
if Child dies it will kill Aunt Sarah, Miss May.” 

She glanced at the doctor, who had mechanically 
responded to her “Good morning,” but, receiving no 
encouragement, withheld the question. He was no 
doubt, deep in his case : he didn’t seem even to see us. 
Every now and then he would say, “Um, hum, — Um, 
hum,” to himself under his breath. 

“She isn’t going to die,” said Paul, calmly. His 
eyes were big and beautiful with some inward 
thought. 

Paul is the saint of the family, and often sur- 
prises us with some deep or serious remark or ques- 
tion, showing that a great deal is going on beneath 
his gay exterior. 


202 jFout #ontf)S at (SIcn caittt 

The doctor hastily finished his breakfast. He was 
going back to Winfield to see Dr. Springs, to whom 
he was leaving his other patients. Then his inten- 
tion was to return to Glencairn and to remain until 
his services were needed no longer. 

He was extremely fond of Uncle and Aunt Sarah, 
feeling for them the affection of a near kinsman, 
though he was only Uncle Jim’s lifelong friend. 

After breakfast Miss Alice told us we could do 
nothing to help in this trouble except to be good and 
to keep very quiet. We must take Bessie with us 
and keep her happy, for Christiana was needed in the 
sick room. 

She went to the barnyard and told Dick to make 
us five little sleds out of some boxes and barrels she 
had seen out there, showing him just how to do it. 

Then she bundled us up and sent us away to the 
north side of the lawn, where the slope was fine and 
we would be farthest from Aunt Sarah’s room. 

Here we experienced the delights of coasting. We 
enjoyed it — we just couldn’t help it. It was not a 
long morning to us, for we were surprised when 
Daddy Stephen came out with the lunch, telling us 
Miss Alice said if we were not cold or very tired we 
could stay out there all day. 

He reported Child no better. 

Days like this went by, days almost without hope ; 
for the good, kind doctor would only shake his head 
at any questions. 

But Paul never gave in one iota from his first as- 
sertion. “She is not going to die,” he would say. 

“How do you know?” asked Phil. 

“I don’t know how I know, but I do know,” he 
answered, his little thin lips closed tightly and his 
fine gray eyes dark and serious. 

Uncle listened to him as if he thought him in- 
spired, and took heart. 


jFout s©ontl)0 at ©Iettcafttt 203 


But one morning Uncle came out of the sick room 
bright and happy and said, oh, so thankfully, “Paul 
is right. She will not die. ,, 

Oh, how relieved we were. We did not feel like 
dancing and clapping our hands. We felt more as 
if we wished it was Sunday and that we might go to 
church. 

Every one was now as much concerned about Aunt 
Sarah as for Child. She was as white as a sheet. 
But Dr. Rivers said he would have her all right 
again in a few weeks, just have patience. Her hap- 
piness in her little child was touching, Miss Alice 
said, but we had not been allowed to go to the sick 
room as yet. 

Dr. Rivers had gone home again, and if the fam- 
ily loved him before, what did they not feel for him 
now. 

Uncle said, “Richard is himself again/’ and had 
thrown away one crutch and used the other to punch 
us as much as to walk on. 

The day we ran into lunch and found Aunt Sarah 
in the dining room was one for memory to treasure. 
We had not expected to find her there, and when we 
saw her sweet face so unexpectedly we rushed upon 
her, and we were not repulsed this time. 

She had a loving kiss and caress for each one of 
us. She was more beautiful than ever, for her eyes 
had lost that sad, melancholy expression and her 
mouth smiled until it dimpled. She was white and 
thin, but, oh, so happy ! 


CHAPTER XXII. 


CONVALESCENCE. 

Uncle had plied us with questions about Child, 
and we had told him over and over all we knew. Now 
we had to repeat it for Aunt Sarah. 

Little by little they had told Child who she was, 
and she herself had given them her account of her 
Swamp experience. 

She had begged several times for “Tay.” Aunt 
Sarah said that was the name of the rag doll she 
had in her arms the morning she disappeared. Its 
name was Sarah, but the baby called it Tay. 

We told them we knew where it was, and then we 
remembered about the paper, and told Uncle of it. 

He dispatched us at once for it. 

We had not been to the pile since the day we 
found her there. 

We talked about her, of course, all the way. We 
were sorry to lose her, but as Nan very seriously said, 
we were not quite old enough to be parents yet. 
Then to see Uncle and Aunt Sarah so happy was 
compensation enough for our loss. 

We found everything there just as we had last 
seen it. No one disturbed those solitudes. 

The rag doll, or what remained of it, for one arm 
and one leg had departed, lay upon a bed of moss in 
a cradle of pine bark. It was repulsively dirty. 

“And is this the beautiful baby she has been tell- 
ing us about all these weeks ?” laughed Phil. 

204 


jFour 8 $ontb 8 at (Slencafttt 205 


“I can’t laugh, Phil. It must have seemed beauti- 
ful to her, because in some way that she could not 
understand it was associated in her mind with Aunt 
Sarah. Don’t you think so, Harold?” asked Nan. 

We hesitated to pick it up. Paul ran a stick up 
its rag of a dress and volunteered to carry it. 

We found the molasses bucket, and inside lay the 
paper. 

We then walked on to the Swamps, where my poor 
gun had been left weeks before, and found it rusty 
and pretty nearly done for. 

With these we returned home. 

Tay was given to Aunt Sarah, who almost wept at 
the sight of it. 

“Yes, it is the very same one,” she said. “I made it 
myself. It is a menace to health to have such a 
thing around, though. Little Helen cannot see her 
again. 

So saying, she took the stick from Paul, and, after 
scrutinizing it for a few minutes, laid the filthy rag 
on the coals, where we watched it go up in smoke and 
flames. 

The paper Uncle took. It gave all the proofs 
wanted. 

Martha Lane had written it, stating that in August, 
1871, a band of gypsies had camped in the woods 
near the Swamps. That after they left, she being 
near, heard a child crying, and found the little girl 
to whom she gave this paper. 

The child was in a dying condition from what 
seemed to be scarlet fever, and had been abandoned 
by the tribe. 

While she was wondering what to do with her, a 
gypsy woman suddenly appeared, saying pity for the 
little thing had compelled her to return to see what 
had become of it. She gave Martha money if she 
would keep the child. 


20 6 jFour Q^ontfts at ©lettcaint 


The woman said it had been stolen from a rich 
man’s home near New York City only a week be- 
fore. 

The child’s negro nurse had been bribed and 
threatened into silence. 

The band had plotted to abduct the child of this 
man, a noted millionaire, and little Helen had been 
taken by mistake. 

They had intended to claim a reward for this child 
also, but they feared the contagion, and so had left 
her in the woods to die. Then Martha said she had 
taken her to the Swamps and nursed and cared for 
her, and that she had proved a great comfort in her 
lonely life. 

“Oh!” said Uncle, “would that I could find but 
one bone of Martha Lane that I might give it decent 
burial.” 

“Do you think, Uncle, she deliberately burnt her- 
self to death ?” 

“No,” said Uncle. “I suppose she deliberately 
took her life in some way, poison probably, timing it 
so that she knew she would be perfectly dead be- 
fore the flames reached her.” 

One morning Child asked, “Where’s Fader? I 
want Fader.” 

Aunt Sarah told her he had gone to town and 
wouldn’t be back till evening. 

“I want him now,” she fretted. 

Aunt Sarah and Miss Alice tried every way to di- 
vert her, but she kept insisting she wanted him right 
away. 

Dr. Rivers had told them not to let her cry or get 
agitated in any way, as she was still very weak. So 
Aunt Sarah dispatched a servant to town to tell Uncle 
to come home at once. 

He came in an incredibly short time, driving in 
such haste that he gave his lame leg a pretty bad 


JFout Sgottt&s at (Slencaittt 207 


jolting. He looked wild when he came in, stump- 
ing along so fast on his crutch I don't see why he 
didn’t fall. 

“What is it?” he asked, thinking something dread- 
ful had happened. 

“Helen desires to see her father,” they told him. 

I believe Job’s patience was nothing to Uncle 
Jim’s, for he didn’t frown or say “Pshaw !” nor any- 
thing; but just laughed and turned to the sick room. 

When he went up to the bedside, asking what his 
darling wanted of Papa, she threw herself back and 
cried, “Oh, I didn’t want Papa ! It’s Fader I want.” 

Aunt Sarah thought her wandering, and immedi- 
ately became very grave. 

Uncle had the crazy thought that she might mean 
Craymouth. 

They were both at their wit’s end to quiet her. 

Miss Alice thought to ask us if we knew any one 
she called “Father.” 

“Why, that’s Harold,” said Paul. 

“Get up ! Come along, young man,” she said, tap- 
ping me on my shoulder and ushering me down the 
hall. 

I took care to stuff down into my pockets all my 
paternal airs and prepared to greet her with only 
cousinly affection. 

She was sitting up among the pillows, and what 
hadn’t true mother love done for her these past 
weeks ! She was as dainty and fresh as a snowdrop. 
Her eyes were shining like stars in her little white 
face. 

The frail little body was arrayed in a lovely blue 
wrapper of some soft material. She was positively 
exquisite. 

She held out her arms in genuine delight, exclaim- 
ing in rapturous tones, “There is my Fader !” 

It seemed to strike Aunt Sarah’s funny vein, for 


2o8 jFout 00ontI)S at <£>lencairtt 


she laughed and laughed as I had never seen her do 
in all the months we had been at Glencairn. Indeed, 
they all seemed to think it a good joke, and watched 
us with great interest. 

After I had kissed her and petted her for a while 
she pointed to Aunt Sarah, and, turning to me, said, 
“She’s my Mamma.” Then, pointing to Uncle Jim, 
“and he’s my Papa, and they are my Alice and May.” 

“This my room,” sweeping her hand all around, 
then, sitting up and growing even more animated, she 
exclaimed, “This my house! I was horned here, 
Fader. He never going to send me to that ‘sylum. 
I’m going to live here all the time !” 

Presently she said, “Where’s Moder? I want 
Moder.” 

“That’s Nan, I suppose,” said Uncle, tears of 
laughter in his eyes. 

“Yes,” I said. 

He opened the door and called, “Nan, you’re 
wanted.” 

And down the hall she came, skipping with glee, 
most delighted to see her small charge once more, 
and, having been motherly all her life, first to her 
dolls and then to Bessie, Tom and Margaret, she 
dropped none of her maternal solicitude, but was 
just her own natural self. 

After Nan had sufficiently caressed and admired 
her, her ladyship next demanded Uncle Phil and 
Uncle Paul. 

They came in at once. Bessie had, as usual, stolen 
a march upon us. Several days before she had 
quietly slipped under Dr. Rivers’ arm, as he stood 
holding the door open, looking back talking to Aunt 
Sarah. 

As she was such a mouse she was allowed to stay, 
and as Child derived much amusement watching her 


JFour Cjontbs at (glettcatttt 209 

play with her dolls, she spent hours in the room each 
day. 

Helen was duly pleased to see her uncles. 

The grown people were just sitting by the fire 
watching us. I was sitting on the bed and Helen 
had curled herself up in my arm, when, looking up 
at me, her face radiant with smiles and eyes shining 
with happiness, she said, pointing to Phil, “Fader, I 
want him to be the little girl and play the wolf.” 

Grinning, I gave the command. 

Phil got behind Nan and shook his head vigor- 
ously at me. 

“Yes, I want to see the wolf,” demanded our lit- 
tle tyrant. 

“Trot him out,” said Uncle. “Don’t make her 
cry.” 

So there was nothing for it but that Master Phil 
should make a display of his talents before his elders. 

But Phil soon forgets himself in what he person- 
ates. His changes of facial expression are marvel- 
ous. You know before he opens his mouth who is 
going to speak. 

The mother called up Little Red Riding Hood, she 
packed the basket, she fastened on the cloak, she 
gave the message to Grandmother — you could see it 
all. 

Then, in altogether another voice, almost another 
face, he showed us the little girl wandering through 
the forest, which he described to us, talking aloud to 
herself as she gathered the flowers. 

You almost wanted to kiss Phil, he was so sweet. 

But when, as the wolf, he came bounding and gal- 
loping in on all fours towards the bed, Helen fran- 
tically clutched me around the neck, peered over at 
the monster, fascinated but half frightened, crying 
out, “O, Fader, make him go away from here.” 

She was absorbed in the dialogue between old 


2io jfouc ggontfrg at (glettcaint 

Granny and the wolf. But when he came to “What 
makes your teeth so long?” she took my face in both 
of her hands and in great excitement shrieked, 
“Fader! Fader! Don’t let him eat her!” 

“No,” I said, “he is going to be killed himself.” 

And when finally the wolf lay in his death agony, 
convulsively gasping and kicking, she leaned over to 
look at him and took a long breath of relief. 

As for those grown people, I never saw anything 
like it. Aunt Sarah almost had hysterics, and, hav- 
ing begun to laugh, it seemed as if she couldn’t stop. 

Uncle said, “Phil, you’ll never want for money.” 
And Miss Alice said she felt as if she had been to a 
vaudeville show. 

But Uncle said we must not play any more, for 
Helen would be too exhausted. She protested against 
this, but Aunt Sarah, who had control of herself 
again, told her if she got over excited or tired, she 
would be ill again, and promised we should come in 
every day now, if she would only be good and obey. 

So we returned to the sitting room, after having 
had a jolly good time. 

But Phil’s performance must have delighted the 
young ladies, for in the afternoon, when Miss Dian 
and Miss Peno called on them, Miss May came out 
and hunted us up and carried Phil off almost by force 
to tell another story from Infant Classics. 

We followed, seating ourselves on the rug, watch- 
ing both the actor and the ladies. 

He chose this time “Beauty and the Beast.” 

They looked highly entertained as he personated 
each character in a different voice and expression. 
But when he came to the Beast, and he rolled in, 
bowing out his elbows as if his “tummy” was big and 
round, walking with his feet turned in and over al- 
most on his ankles, with such an expression on his 
face that we ourselves felt the thrill of excitement, 


jftmt cgtmt&g at <glcncaitit 211 

they rolled in their chairs and wept tears of laughter. 

They were a highly appreciative audience. 

“Why didn’t you let us know you had this remark- 
able gift before?” asked Miss May. 

We spent some delightful hours in Helen’s pretty 
nursery. She had there numbers of mechanical 
toys that gave us much pleasure. 

When she found the linen books with the colored 
illustrations of the stories Phil had told she was wild 
with excitement. It was wonderful how she remem- 
bered them and, with the book open, she would pre- 
tend she was reading, greatly to Uncle Jim’s delight. 

She improved very rapidly when once she got out 
of her room. 

The first day she was able to leave it, Aunt Sarah 
dressed her just before dinner and took her into the 
sitting room to surprise Uncle. 

When he came in, Bessie, as she had done ever 
since she had been at Glencairn, ran forward with 
Helen to be kissed. 

Uncle stooped and, taking Helen up, exclaimed, 
“O, to think of having you run to meet me once 
more, my darling!” and not even seeing Bessie, sat 
down with her on his knee. 

Aunt Sarah, coming in just then, seated herself on 
the arm of his chair and they both became absorbed 
in Helen, kissing and playing with her, while she 
was laughing merrily. 

This was a good thing for our little dethroned 
princess, for she was in the throes of jealousy. She 
stood dumbfounded, for the first time in her life 
forgotten and unobserved, looking at them with wide 
open eyes of astonishment and anger. 

Nan, tender as usual towards her little pet, leaned 
forward, and, catching her by the hem of her dress, 
drew her backwards nearer her; then she seated her 
on her lap with her back turned to the merry group 


2i2 jrout S©ont&si at (Slencaint 

and gently but surreptitiously wiped away the tears. 

Aunt Sarah noticed her presently, and must have 
said something to Uncle. He stopped the frolic to 
call, “Come here, little Bessie. Uncle has another 
knee. Come, pet !” But she shook her head, strug- 
gling bravely with the wails she longed to give vent 
to, but of which Aunt Sarah’s disapproval had grad- 
ually been teaching her to control. 

We chatted to Uncle to turn his attention from 
her, because we were really sorry for the child, 
though we understood, of course. 

“Uncle Paul,” said Helen, “show Papa how I did 
when you caught me in the woods.” 

Whereupon Paul, standing in a clear space of the 
room, instantly became a tangle of feet and arms, 
emitting meanwhile little shrieks of terror. 

Helen screamed with delight, and Uncle laughed, 
too, but he hugged her closer. 

“I thought they were going to beat me,” she said. 

This amused Bessie so much she forgot her woes. 

Helen loved to play games with us in the yard, 
and we instructed her in those that are dear to all 
children : Blind Man’s Buff, — Hop Scotch, — Old 
Mother Hippy tehop, — Chick, my Chick in a Train 
We Go, and all the others. 

Sometimes when we were playing just as hard as 
we could she would say, “I’ll be back in a minute, 
Fader.” Then off she’d dance to look for Aunt 
Sarah. 

Then, standing before her with her hands clasped, 
she would ask her most earnestly, “Mamma, do you 
really and truly love me ?” and Aunt Sarah was never 
too busy to lay aside whatever she was doing to 
hug and kiss the child to her heart’s content. 

Uncle Jim said he thought it was too pathetic how 
hungry she was for mother love. 

Aunt Sarah was busy those days making beautiful 


jFout at ©lencatrn 213 


garments for her. She said she was going to let her 
fare sumptuously and be clad in fine linen so as to 
eradicate as quickly as possible the memory of the 
Swamps. Uncle told her that what she had learned 
of evil there was but a pin scratch compared to the 
contamination that might have befallen her, for 
which she could not be too thankful. 

The letters and telegrams that Uncle and Aunt 
Sarah received those days from their relatives and 
friends congratulating them upon the recovery of 
their child astounded us. 

Helen was the center of attraction the first Sunday 
Aunt Sarah took her to church. After the service 
all their friends came crowding around to see the 
child. Aunt Sarah had her beautifully dressed and 
she was as pretty as a picture — and Uncle Jim as 
proud as Punch. 

She was very shy, though. She had tight hold of 
her mother’s hand and walked so close in front of 
her Aunt Sarah could scarcely move. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


HOME AGAIN. 

Miss Alice and Miss May were going home. How 
sorry we were. 

Mrs. Faulkner had written that she couldn’t spare 
them any longer, for Miss Alice was to be married 
in February. 

Uncle Jim and Aunt Sarah and little Helen were 
going to the wedding. Mr. Chadwick was distracted 
to see his little grandchild again. 

Miss Alice told us she had not forgotten her 
promise. Cousin Tom and herself both wanted us 
to pay them a visit after they were settled in their 
new home. 

Miss May actually said as she was leaving, “I 
hope when next I pay Aunt Sarah a visit that you 
will all be here.” 

Now, wasn’t that something! 

It seemed very lonesome without them, because 
they always had so much company. 

But Aunt Sarah had her little girl, and she could 
scarcely think of anything else. 

We ourselves would be going soon. 

We looked for a telegram any day telling us to 
pack up and be at the station to join them, for we 
knew their steamer was in. 

One evening Uncle was late coming home to din- 
ner. Now that the election was over and Hampton 
Governor, the excitement about riots had died down 
214 


jFout at ©Iencatm 215 


and Uncle could stay in town as late as he wanted 
without Aunt Sarah getting sick with anxiety. 

We were all dressed clean and brushed up for 
dinner and were playing with Helen in the sitting 
room, when we heard buggy wheels. Uncle still 
walked with a crutch. 

He drove to the front instead of as usual driving 
round to the back, and more footsteps were on the 
piazza than his. 

“Uncle has brought company,” I said, when in he 
came with our own father and mother. Such a 
scream of joy as we gave ! How we rushed to them 
to be half smothered in a close embrace. 

Had we been so homesick? We didn’t know it, 
but now we felt as if we could never, never, let them 
go from our sight again. 

But the time had come for Mother to meet Aunt 
Sarah, who was standing near waiting till we were 
released. 

She was only the gracious hostess as she stood 
there. 

Mother came and took both of her hands in hers 
and looked at her; then an expression of contrition 
passed over her countenance that she had ever been 
unkind even in thought to one so lovely. 

Then she impulsively took Aunt Sarah in her lov- 
ing, motherly arms and kissed her warmly — and 
Aunt Sarah forgave her, and they became sisters 
there and then, much to Uncle Jim’s delight, who 
had taken a great fancy to Mother while at Theydon 
Hall. 

Father was as well as usual. He had never been 
robust, not even as a child. He, too, we could see, 
liked Aunt Sarah. 

Bessie claimed her mother’s lap. Gone was her 
jealousy now. Paul thrust himself under Mother’s 
other arm. The twins took a knee each on Father’s 


216 jFour c@ontl)s; at (Slencaim 


lap, and I sat between them, being loved and caressed 
in turn by them both. 

Our tongues all went at once, little Helen the 
theme. She had been duly introduced and now was 
seated on her father’s knee watching us very gravely, 
for she knew she would lose her playmates and it 
grieved her sorely. 

After dinner Father was very quiet. The ghosts 
of departed days were with him. Eighteen years had 
passed since he had last seen Glencairn. Here he had 
spent his boyhood, and, walking up and down the 
room, he was lost in reverie. 

Every one seemed to comprehend, and he was not 
troubled with questions or annoyed in any way, even 
when he went into the library and sat before Grand- 
mother’s portrait, absorbed with memories of the 
past. 

But after a while Uncle sent Nan for him to 
bring him back to the family circle, where a 
friendly battle was being fought. 

Uncle and Aunt Sarah were insisting that we 
should all stay at Glencairn until after Christmas, 
and Mother protesting that we could not. 

“I say, Brother,” Uncle called out, as he came in, 
“here is Nannie breaking in upon all of our plans. 
The idea of not staying here for Christmas. This 
is the first Christmas within little Helen’s memory, 
and we want it to be one never to be forgotten. It 
would break her heart if her cousins were not here.” 

Father smiled, but said, “My dear Jim, nothing 
would please me more, for you can’t imagine how de- 
lighted I am to be here with you once more; but 
there are the babies, you see. Little Tom would lose 
faith in us forevermore if we should fail him now, 
after all the promises we have made to him about 
Christmas.” 


jFour gjgont&g at 6Icncairn 217 

“It is almost impossible for me to stay away from 
them another day,” added Mother. 

“O, they’ll not be left out. This is my plan, to 
telegraph to Mrs. Chase to pack them off to-morrow 
afternoon. Traveling all night, they will reach us 
the following afternoon, and I propose, Brother, that 
you and I take a day off and go down to the city to 
meet them. That’s the only change they make. 

“And so you see, Nannie, you have no further ex- 
cuse.” 

Helen slipped from Uncle’s knee and ran to Father 
and took hold of his hand. “Please, please, Uncle 
Brother,” she pleaded. “Do stay. I want them so.” 

We ducked our heads at “Uncle Brother,” but we 
didn’t laugh for fear of a tantrum. 

“Now that is the first request my child has ever 
made of you. Are you going to refuse her?” 

Aunt Sarah came to a low chair by Mother and, 
taking her hand, said, “You will stay now, won’t 
you ?” 

She told Mother afterwards that she had learned 
to love her through her children and had longed to 
know her, which Mother said to us was the prettiest 
compliment she had ever received. 

Our parents could not withstand such a pressing 
invitation, and accordingly we stayed. 

Father and Uncle went off to the city and we 
counted the minutes till the darlings came. 

From otie point in the distance the train can be 
seen if you happen to be looking in that direction. 
We seated ourselves to watch this point. 

After what seemed an endless waiting some one 
saw the smoke, then like a serpent the cars passed this 
point and we knew they were almost at Winfield. 

When we thought they must be near home, we four 
ran to meet them to be taken into the carriage. We 
left Bessie and Helen with Mother and Aunt Sarah. 


218 jFour s@ontfts! at ©lentatnt 


They stopped when they saw us, and after squeez- 
ing Tom nearly to death, we left Nan inside the car- 
riage on Father’s knee playing with Tom who was in 
Uncle’s lap. Then we climbed outside. 

Sunbeam was simply delicious. He wore a pretty 
dark blue suit — kilt and pants, of which he was won- 
derfully proud. 

The color set off his beautiful golden curls and fair 
skin to perfection. Aunt Sarah was charmed with 
him. He was entranced at seeing Mother and Bessie 
once more. 

‘‘Mover and Bethie, — Mover and Bethie,” he kept 
saying, over and over again from sheer delight. 

He was a little shy of Helen at first, but by the 
next day he had drawn her within the circle of his 
love and she was basking in it also. 

Helen looked at little Margaret with the utmost as- 
tonishment. It was her first acquaintance with a 
baby, and her surprise at its not being able to talk or 
walk was so funny we couldn’t help laughing. 

Baby had forgotten all of us except Mother — per- 
haps. She wanted to stay in Mauma’s arms. 

Mauma filled us with delight. She had returned 
from her four months’ sojourn in Atlanta with her 
snow-white turban piled a foot high upon her aris- 
tocratic old head and with all of her old mistress’s 
airs and graces so adjusted to her she might have 
been born and bred in Grandmother’s skin. When on 
the next morning she took us to task for some breach 
of etiquette, in not only the words but the tones of 
that estimable lady, we danced before her in mirthful 
derision. 

But when she shook the immaculate little Rodericks 
at us, Phil and I took her by her shoulders and shook 
her till she declared she was going to tell Marse 
Philip. 

Then seeing us laughing — defiant and overflowing 


jfour s©ottti)0 at ©letttatttt 219 


with fun, she caught us in her arms and hugged us 
till we squealed, the twinkle in her eye spreading all 
over her wrinkled old face, and calling us “little var- 
mints” pushed us away from her and told us to “go 
'long an' pester somebody else.” 

Dear old Mauma adores every one of her past 
charges, and would sooner cut off her finger than get 
one of us into trouble. 

Aunt Sarah was delighted with her, for there were 
none of her kind at Glencairn. 

Preparations for Christmas were going on rapidly 
now. Aunt Sarah and Mother were closeted and we 
shut out, while packages and bundles were brought in 
from under the buggy seat every time any one came 
from town. 

Father and Uncle were having a good time — get- 
ting in the way, Aunt Sarah and Mother said. 

Boxes that had been sent on to Theydon Hall were 
expressed back to Glencairn. A big box came from 
Grandmother, Uncle Ritchie and Auntie, and another 
from New York. 

Our curiosity was intense and Helen thought life 
outside of the Swamps was great. 

We counted the days, and at last the day of days 
came — and such a glorious day it was ! 

The tree on Christmas Eve was the first one Helen 
and Tom had ever seen. They were speechless with 
delight. It was a vision of beauty — all bright and 
glittering with its many colored candles and beautiful 
ornaments of glass and tinsel ; and loaded to the floor 
with everything we had expressed a desire to pos- 
sess. 

The grown people had exchanged presents too and 
they were about as jolly as we. 

Sunbeam was perfectly darling over it. He looked 
like an angel, with the lights falling on his upturned 
face as Father held him in his arms. 


220 jfour s@ontf)!S at ©lettcairn 


The servants had not been forgotten either. Their 
presents were put on chairs in the pantry; and our 
parents, knowing well we had bothered them, re- 
membered them generously; and we had the fun of 
overhearing Christiana say to Daddy Stephen, “Dey 
is Quality, sure, Mr. Gourdine.” And his reply, “Dat 
dey is, Miss White.” 

One of Tom’s books on the tree was “The Night 
Before Christmas,” and Helen, Bessie and himself 
were shouting over it, spread out before them on 
the hearth-rug. 

I sat down and read it to them, the others listening. 

“Oh, Fader,” said Helen, clasping my face to look 
in my eyes, “Is Santa coming down our chimney 
to-night ?” 

“ Wid little reindeer ?” shouted Tom. 

“Don’t let us go to bed, Mamma ; please let us sit 
up. I want to see him.” 

“He never comes unless you go to bed,” I said. 

Then we took the little ones into the library to help 
them hang up their stockings. We hung up ours 
too. We didn’t feel too big. 

Then when we went back, Uncle began to sing an 
old time Christmas carol that he learned when he was 
a boy. Father joined him, then Aunt Sarah and 
Mother, and our lovely evening closed in singing one 
after another all the Christmas hymns and carols we 
knew. 

Santa Claus was seen by none of us for our eyelids 
were sealed soon after our heads touched our pillows. 

By early dawn we were up and dressed. We ran 
to the library for our stockings. They were all bulg- 
ing out with goodies and little presents that were too 
small for the tree, yet dear to the heart of a child. 

After breakfast, into Winfield for the beautiful 
Christmas Service, — then home, — a short play, — a 
long, long dinner, — then around the fire, a delightful 


JFouc gjomfrg at aiencaint 221 

time talking and listening to our elders “reminisce,” 
— and Christmas 1876 was over. 

Among the innumerable presents Child had re- 
ceived was a renovated Tay. 

Aunt Sarah with wonderful skill had reproduced it 
almost exactly in brown linen, fashioning it minus 
one leg and arm, with faint daubs of paint where once 
its features were beautifully outlined. 

Its clothes, though new, matched in color and in 
style those worn by the ill-fated doll of the Swamps. 

We watched her curiously as it was handed to her. 
She was in raptures ; though at first she looked upon 
it with suspicion. 

“Since Tay came to Glencairn, she has improved 
as much in appearance as you have, hasn’t she, dar- 
ling?” said Nan to reassure her. 

This satisfied her, and with her comforter clasped 
to her heart, she received all the beautiful dolls and 
costly toys sent to her by her relatives in New York; 
such dolls and such toys as we had never even 
dreamed of. 

She was delighted with them, but Tay was not in 
that class of gifts at all. 

Aunt Sarah must have felt fully repaid for the 
trouble she had taken. 

Helen would not part with her even at bed time. 
Tay lay in her arms just as she lay in Aunt Sarah’s 
in those days when she, with recovered conscious- 
ness, opened her eyes to find herself in what must 
have seemed to her a paradise. 

Uncle Jim was one evening in the sitting room, 
resting his lame leg on the davenport, when the door 
opened and she came in with Tay. 

The room was dark except for the firelight and 
the davenport in complete shadow so she thought 
herself alone. 

She seated herself in the little rocking chair that 


222 


jfour at ©lencaim 


Santa had brought her and proceeded to rock her 
baby to sleep, — crooning meanwhile an air she could 
have picked up from no one but Granny. 

Her thoughts must have been with the old woman, 
for Uncle heard her say aloud, “Her was good to us, 
Tay. I wonder where Her is now.” 

Uncle and Aunt Sarah to express their gratitude 
for the recovery of the Child made an offering that 
was to be used in building a home for orphan chil- 
dren. It was to be called “The Martha Lane Me- 
morial Cottage.” 

They sent Dr. Rivers a fine present, too, but we 
didn’t know what it was. 

After Christmas packing began in earnest. We 
were sad and we were glad. Home had always been 
most delightful to us, and we longed to see every- 
thing and everybody there. Little Helen was griev- 
ing sadly and Aunt Sarah said she didn’t see how she 
was going to console the child. She did wish mother 
lived near her, so that she could help her in train- 
ing the little thing as she had trained us. 

At last the day came that was to end our visitation. 

It was a very unpleasant day, so Uncle Jim alone 
came into town with us. 

The last we saw of little Helen, she was clinging to 
her mother weeping passionately, while dear Aunt 
Sarah was stooping down with her arms around her 
trying to comfort her. 

Our trip home was quickly over. In the city we 
made close connection, — we merely changed cars. 

That red-haired young man was on the train again. 
Father said he was a drummer. He tried to get us 
into a frolic; but we felt too badly at leaving dear 
Uncle and Aunt Sarah and little Helen behind. 

After two or three ineffectual efforts to get us into 
conversation, he leaned forward and said, “Ah, I see. 
You have your bodyguard this time.” 


Jfout Months at (Slencairn 223 


We nodded, and I really believe he thought us 
afraid to speak before Father and Mother — and we 
let it go at that. 

We went to sleep when night came, and didn’t 
wake till early next morning. 

We crossed in the ferry boat. Daddy George with 
the carriage and Daddy Hector with the wagon were 
at the landing waiting for us. 

In two hours more we were at home again, run- 
ning from room to room, hugging old Maum Han- 
nah and asking about our pets. 

The dogs jumped up and licked our faces with joy 
at seeing us once more. 

Bessie ran out to see her lamb, — her gentle, spot- 
less lamb that followed her everywhere. He came 
bounding and butting, twice the size she had left him 
and so rough and rude he sent her sprawling, while 
her cries brought Father running. 

Maum Hannah had taken good care of all our pets ; 
we found them all there just as she had promised. 

In the schoolroom we saw on the blackboard, exe- 
cuted in Phil’s best style, with her name written in 
large letters below her, “Old Aunt Sal,” as we had 
expected to find her. With a spring he seized the 
eraser and blotted her out forever. 

“We had a lot to learn, didn’t we?” I said. 

* * * * 

When jostled out of a rut, does life never run 
again in the same old groove ? 

I thought we would soon be living in the same old 
way — a little study and a little play. 

Father was well again. We never heard any more 
about his tangled finances, so we think Grandmother 
or Uncle James must have helped him straighten 
them out. 

We were all preparing to get everything into the 


224 jFour a^cmt&a! at ©lencaim 


same running order as before Father’s illness when 
the first shock came. 

Cousin John was not coming back. Mr. Marks had 
resigned his position as principal of Mt. Jericho in 
Winfield, and he had been elected in his stead, the 
change to take place by April ; so there would hardly 
be any use to begin with us. 

This caused a considerable deal of trouble, because 
Father did not find it easy to get any one to fill his 
place. He was an uncommonly fine scholar and 
teacher and Father regretted his loss exceedingly. 

Then the next thing we heard was Auntie’s engage- 
ment to Cousin John. 

“How did he manage it?” laughed Father. 

“ ’E getten ol’ an ’e stop pestering ’e chillun ?” was 
Mauma’s sage solution of it. 

The wedding was to take place in March, as Cousin 
John wanted Aunt Eva when he went to Winfield. 

“And we all were to go to the wedding ” And we 
would see Cousin Alice and Cousin Tom in their new 
home, perhaps stay some time with them.” 

“And we will see those immaculate little Roder- 
icks ” laughed Nan. 

Next came the letter from Cousin John proposing 
that Phil and I should come to them in Winfield, so 
as to continue our studies under him at Mt. Jericho. 

Aunt Eva wanted all four of us to come, but 
Mother said she couldn’t spare Nan, and Paul was 
too young ; later on they might go, perhaps ; but that 
they would gladly send us, as we were getting old 
enough to study in earnest now. 

Then when Uncle heard of it, he and Aunt Sarah 
wrote that we must stay at Glencairn — they could 
easily get us into school each day. 

But Father knew that Uncle was the grandest 
child spoiler that ever breathed, so preferred us to 
be with Cousin John during the week; but said we 


Jfout 0©ont[)Si at ©lettcamt 225 


could go out there every Friday afternoon and stay 
until Monday morning. And so that was the ar- 
rangement. 

Nan was awfully distressed at the separation and 
so was Paul, but Mother told us we couldn’t remain 
children always, and that now we had to prepare for 
our life’s work. 

Phil and I couldn’t help being pleased at the 
change ; it meant so much to us. 

We couldn’t but see, even during those short two 
weeks we were at Mt. Jericho how badly we needed 
to come in contact with other boys of our own age. 
But at the same time, our hearts were heavy at part- 
ing from those we love as our life. 

***** 

March 30, 1877. 

We leave this afternoon for Winfield. 

We went to the wedding and had the grandest 
time. Grandmother was really lovely to us. 

Auntie was perfectly exquisite as a bride, and 
Cousin John so proud, he forgot to be stern. 

Cousin Alice was Dame of Honor, and Miss May 
one of the bridesmaids. 

We stayed several days with Cousin Alice, and she 
and Miss May and Cousin Tom just devoted them- 
selves to our amusement, and we surely had the time 
of our lives. 

We saw the little Rodericks. We were silent. 
They really are immaculate. 

***** 

I am finishing this story because it has been a part 
of my education to finish everything begun. 

So when I write the word “Finis” to this, I will 
put it away in the old secretary in the library until 
I want it. 

Helen needs it no longer. She has everything that 
heart can desire. 

[Finis.] 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


WHAT THE YEARS HAVE BROUGHT. 

October 25, 1912. 

As I said in the Preface, while looking for an old 
law paper I came across this manuscript stowed 
away just where I had put it in the old secretary, 
which has long since been relegated to the garret. 

Thirty-five years have passed since then — years, 
many of them filled to overflowing with joys, ambi- 
tions fulfilled, success, and quiet domestic happiness ; 
others freighted with sorrow. 

There is to be a great gathering of the family at 
Theydon Hall next week. The occasion is the mar- 
riage of our eldest daughter, Sarah, or “Tay” as she 
is very often called. 

Uncle Jim and Aunt Sarah will be here, of course. 
Uncle is still a hale, strong man, as full of life and 
jokes as ever, and even more dependent on Aunt 
Sarah. 

She is erect and slender and lovely in her crown of 
snowy hair. 

James and Chadwick, their sons, with their wives 
and handsome youngsters are expected. 

Cousin John will leave the university where he has 
the Chair of Mathematics, and with Auntie, their 
three children and four grandchildren, be our guests. 

Uncle Ritchie and Henderson and his wife and 
children will be here. 

Grandmother, whom we learned to love and esteem 
226 


jFout 00ontf)S at ©lencattn 227 


when we reached years of discretion, left us long ago. 
And our circle is not unbroken. Sunbeam, our “Lit- 
tle Boy Blue,” was the first to leave us. He had al- 
ways more of Heaven than earth about him. 

It was our first great sorrow, and Mother, darling 
Mother, comforted us while her own heart was break- 
ing. Many years have passed since then, but his 
memory is fragrant to this day. 

Then Father lost his health again, and was an in- 
valid for many years before he, too, was taken. 

Mother lives with her children in turn, each eager 
to claim her. She is still the dearest, most adorable 
mother and grandmother that ever blessed a family. 

Cousin Tom and Cousin Alice, with their children 
and grandchildren, are coming. 

I live at Theydon Hall. Helen is my wife, and 
most happy have we been. 

She still calls me Father, and when excited takes 
my face between her hands in exactly the same old 
way. She looks much like her mother, but in our 
six children we have all the family types reproduced. 

There are two Chadwicks, two Theydons, one 
Glencoe and one Chase. 

Dear old Phil will be here, too. He is a famous 
surgeon in the Navy. Tay has arranged her wed- 
ding day to suit his convenience. We see him very 
seldom, but, being a fine correspondent, he keeps us 
in touch with him always. He has never married, 
and now, at forty-six, probably never will. His rare 
visits home are the signals for a family gathering at 
Theydon Hall. 

He is generous to a fault, and comes laden with 
presents for all the youngsters, who look upon him 
as their special property. 

To them Uncle Phil is the sun, around which all 
the rest of the family revolve. 

And Nan, blessed sister ! She fulfilled the promise 


228 jFout 90OM&0 at ©lencairn 


of her youth, and if there is a finer woman anywhere 
than Mrs. Theodore Roderick I would like to see 
her. Physically, morally, mentally, she is superb! 

They will come with their seven fine and “Doubly 
Immaculate Young Rodericks. ,, 

Paul, his wife and three children will be among us, 
of course. Why, he will perform the ceremony, for 
the Rev. Paul has for many years now been located 
in the city, in charge of that historic old church, idol- 
ized by all who know him. 

I think him beautiful in his manhood, and always 
feel better in every way after attending a service in 
his church. 

Bessie, her husband and two children will try to 
come. 

She is not as beautiful a woman as she promised 
to be. Many sorrows have come to her, and the 
years have left their mark upon her more decidedly 
than upon any of us. 

“Little Margaret” will come if she possibly can. 
She is a handsome bachelor maid, highly educated, 
and proudly supporting herself in a large city far 
away from home. 

She is an enthusiastic club woman, a member of 
the D. A. R’s. and of the U. D. Cs., and as great a 
bridge fiend as ever cursed the land. 

She has been well bitten by modern ideas and is 
ill-fitted to any of us. 

This glimpse I give of us all, and then close my 
volume. 


[The End.] 


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